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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848265">Inheritance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alena_hu/pseuds/alena_hu'>alena_hu</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alena_hu/pseuds/Lovelace'>Lovelace (alena_hu)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prometheus Unbound [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Matrix (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>01, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Revolutions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:29:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>101,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alena_hu/pseuds/alena_hu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/alena_hu/pseuds/Lovelace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The former agent Smith and the former resistant Aleph, having broken the ancient lock associated with the file HF12-1, are freed from their imprisonment inside the Zion mainframe and on a direct path to 01, the city of the machines. Meanwhile in the Matrix, Persephone finally faces the fact that her husband's obsessive pursuit of "magic" has turned him into an utter stranger. The long-delayed sequel to Awakenings. (Trigger warnings in author's note at beginning.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Agent Smith/Original Female Character, The Merovingian/Persephone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prometheus Unbound [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Matrix Cycle 8: I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/11266695/chapters/25192824">Awakenings</a>, an earlier story of mine. </p><p>For trigger warnings, <a href="https://riskoflight.tumblr.com/post/626173845324300288/trigger-warnings-for-inheritance">click here</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Our mind has its history, just as our body has its history. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>—Carl Gustav Jung, Analytical Psychology: Its Theory and Practice</em>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<em>164±5 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The patches of luminous color on the floor, flung down by the stained-glass windows, deepened with the twilight. If the young lady were human, she might have thought of metaphors for them: canopies of summer forests, sea foam, newly spilled blood. In contrast, she herself was all gentle pastels: cloudy lavender silk, hair a fashionably half-faded gold, complexion pale with a becoming hint of flush. Pink fingernails traced random patterns on the marble tabletop; a pearl-trimmed clutch purse lay next to her wineglass. The room was beginning to fill for the evening. Gazes lingered upon her as people passed, tinged with desire from men, contempt from women. She only bothered to stare back occasionally. </p><p>Across the floor, Persephone still sat alone at the long table upon the dais, as she had for the last hour, leaning carelessly against the back of her chair, a study in queenly boredom. A retainer, in an agent-like dark suit but without the tie, approached and bent to speak into her ear. His mistress dismissed him with a casual wave. Her glance, a sudden blade, swept the room; the blonde girl in the corner booth looked away before Persephone's eyes caught her own. The proprietor of the establishment, contrary to his usual practice, remained firmly out of view. </p><p>"Helena."</p><p>The greeting came from only a yard away. The constriction in the syllables was nearly undetectable, but it was definitely there already, the inevitable effect of masculine lust. The blonde transferred her attention to the man standing before her, and displayed a second or two of startlement. She smiled. <br/>
 <br/>
"Hello, there." The lilt of her voice must have been perfected centuries in the past.</p><p>Less than a minute after he sat down in the booth next to her, his hand was already groping for the slit in her skirt. She squirmed a well-calibrated inch against the upholstered seat. At the other end of the restaurant, another underling arrived to confer with Persephone, his whispers just low enough to be drowned out by the hubbub.  </p><p>"Oh, please," murmured Helena, lips upturned in mock demureness, no trace of frustration in her expression. </p><p>The wine went to her patron's head quickly. She giggled at his attempted jokes and traced a finger lightly up the arm of his suit jacket. He was a politician, a powerful man according to his own understanding of the concept. A human spy would have listened closely as he began to complain of intrigues in government agencies and among cabinet members. Helena had no need to concern herself with such trivialities; nevertheless, she asked a few inane questions, drawing him out further to wallow in the enjoyment of his own voice. Pleasing him did not require the full use of her mind. </p><p>The Merovingian was still nowhere in sight, which suggested preoccupation with urgent matters. Not unexpected, in context of the information she had received about what had happened earlier today. The effects of those happenings were yet to be fully played out, and it fell upon her to gather intelligence as to what they would be. </p><p>Ada M. Greene, also known as Aleph, for whom the criminal exiled program had developed an unexplained fascination. That fascination had been of high priority for months. The woman had been killed eight hours and twenty-three minutes ago, to all appearances, yet for reasons that Helena was not meant to know, doubt had been introduced regarding the facts of that death. The blonde tittered softly as her companion squeezed her knee beneath the table, then a little more loudly as he began to work his way higher. Such interactions formed part and parcel of what she was, and she had always acted accordingly, but tonight it might create an inconvenience. He would want to leave with her soon, to the back of his chauffeured car at least. However, the cunning construction of the Merovingian's domain, with its effective safeguards against every manner of surveillance common to the Matrix, meant that she would need to remain here physically in order to learn more. </p><p>"We still have time for dessert, don't we?" She injected the correct level of girlish whine to the words, tongue darting over rosy lips. "Chocolate cake?"</p><p>Past the man's shoulder, the Merovingian finally stalked in, flanked by the white-clad twins. </p><p>Tension in his strides and the straightness of his back. Jaw tightly clenched. Eyes ablaze. Unlike others of her kind, Helena was good at reading body language, and the Merovingian, although not a human, affected to share more than enough of their emotions and mannerisms. In addition, she had the advantage of long practice in observing this particular program. The identification was immediate: the Frenchman was furious. </p><p>No evidence of Ada Greene, dead or alive. </p><p>In his right hand, the Merovingian was clutching an unsheathed computer disk. As he turned to snap out some instruction to the paired henchmen behind him, it shifted against his fingers. The circular shape, for a few heartbeats, stretched to an ellipse, and she was able to distinguish two silvery rounds instead, one behind another, sliding apart briefly, no longer perfectly aligned with each other. The disk was in fact not a single object, but had been split into two halves along its edge. The barely-revealed surface flickered. Scratches. It took her nearly a full second of focus, using all her visual abilities, before she caught sight of words, the beginning of a line of engraved text. Two, three lines. <em>Those who have. Those who.</em> The pieces disappeared into the Merovingian's suit pocket.</p><p>It was swift work to cross-reference the image of the pried-apart disk with a memory, one that had also taken place in this restaurant, more than three months ago. Ada Greene sitting across from the Frenchman, and a nondescript plastic disk case being pushed across the table between them. The female Zionite had pretended to argue, but her hand was already stretched out toward the case. </p><p>Returning her gaze to the face of her patron for the night, Helena leaned in closer, and reached forward to run the back of her fingers lightly up his thigh, in response to the man's now-clammy grip. The noise from his throat came halfway between a sigh and a moan. The blonde grinned. The Merovingian had already disappeared once more into the back, and Persephone was resettling into her attitude of elegant indifference, but now she possessed the first clue. She had something to go on. </p><p>Hours later, she stood in the bathroom of an expensive hotel suite across the street. Laying the pearl-studded purse carefully down onto the countertop, she spent a short while contemplating the fresh scratches and bruises marking her torso and breasts, sharply displayed under the vanity lights. They would fade soon, but not too soon: suspicions from batteries would be detrimental to her purpose. The door was shut and bolted behind her, and her companion was soundly snoring, sated. Reaching into the purse, she pressed one fingertip against the seam at the bottom of the compartment. The programmed silk lining, responding to the identity of her touch, fell apart noiselessly to reveal another space, barely an inch deep, which had not been there an instant before. Slowly, Helena pulled out a small object made of white plastic and gray chrome. Her slender fingers curled around its smooth coil of wire. </p><p>She lifted the earpiece to the side of her head, fitting it in with a practiced flick of the wrist. The latest directives arrived, an instantaneous cascade of entangled code strings. </p><p>Subject: Ada M. Greene. Search for any information pertaining to potential whereabouts. All locations within the Matrix possible. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>162±5 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Darkness draped itself about the city like velvet curtains, and in the buildings across the street, the lights of a hundred human homes twinkled into life. Beside the living room window, the ancient seeress stood peering into the distance, arms folded across her chest, holding the slow ache in place. At least, that was what it felt like. </p><p>Three days ago, she had brought Aleph here, and in the other's eyes, she had glimpsed the signs of a truly extraordinary occurrence—and more than anyone in or out of the Matrix, the Oracle found very few things extraordinary. She had read the human child's face and words, pushed and pulled as much as she could, and attempted a modicum of advice. Two days ago, Aleph had firmly and irrevocably rejected all that she had advised, out of a stubborn, overwhelming fear.</p><p>She had sensed that fear during their meeting. It had all but radiated from the young woman, mingling with the kitchen heat, and even the scent of her very best chocolate chip cookies was unable to dispel it. It could almost still be sensed, the crystallized core of dread hanging mid-air, wrapped in confusion, guilt, denial. </p><p>Well, Aleph had always been nothing but the longest of shots. It was good that she had already shed her flesh-and-blood body and dropped off all scans, in any case. The Oracle's sight was of no use in these circumstances, but solid conjectures could be formed as to the ex-human's location. It was fortunate that the Merovingian would, most likely, be cautious enough to avoid trouble for at least a little while. The code Aleph carried would, most likely, be still intact. This was the best she could hope for. </p><p>She could not, in the end, blame the girl, thought the Oracle, not when she herself had made the negligent and close-to-fatal error of overlooking Aleph's very existence until it was almost too late. The young woman had introduced an unexpected term in the summation, and her recent actions had certainly turned every probabilistic factor upside down. In the last two days, the old seeress had went over the list of possibilities a hundred times, calculated and re-calculated causes and consequences. Certain futures had been eliminated; certain others had solidified into imminence. She was still unable to visualize all the subtle differences among the currently active scenarios, the branching points that would lead down this or that fork, but one fact was obvious, now more than ever. </p><p>This reload would be different. </p><p>The One was where he was meant to be. But Smith...</p><p>She kept having doubts as to where Smith was meant to be. </p><p>She would have to count on Neo. A mere youth's twenty-six years of human experiences on the surface, and six Matrix cycles' worth of human experiences somewhere deep beneath the ocean, where even her powers could not reach. The One had five months and a few days left to gain the necessarily burdens of love, sacrifice, wisdom. Smith had the same number of months and days to gain madness, hatred, suicidal drives. </p><p>No, strike madness. It was already present in spades, always had been; Aleph had merely watered the seed and triggered its burst into life. All that remained was for it to grow, to fill the space that was unoccupied by a soul, and then beyond. According to the most probable path, it would continue to grow, and grow, until ready to be utterly defeated. The hero would have his monster, and both would be her weapons. A pair of matched fates. Someone like the Architect would have found the symmetry aesthetic. </p><p>She could find no mistake in her computations. </p><p>The seeress drew the curtains and turned away from the window. This was not even the greatest risk she had taken in her long existence, so she was just the least bit startled by the hint of a sting in her throat as she padded across the living room. On the way, she flipped on the floor lamp next to the sofa, and its flood of gold drove apart the shadows. Stopping before the tall bookshelf against the wall, the Oracle ran her hand across a row of book spines, until it paused at a gap, no more than an inch wide, between a stack of faded magazines and an elderly cookbook. In all her years, no visitor had ever remarked on the empty space, no perception of this secret missing link in the Matrix's own memory. She herself was the only one who knew what had once been there: a small notebook, nondescript, bound in cracked brown leather. </p><p>It was the nature of children to be wayward, she reminded herself, especially a child whom she had held in her arms only once in life. The sting inside her throat sharpened as the Oracle recalled the scent of melting concrete and metal, and the heat blasts as pieces of the bridge dropped away into the abyss. The boy had been frightened, wracked with pain and rage, and so, so very awfully young. </p><p>She had kept him safe then, found a way for him to survive his waywardness. But now she could no longer afford to consider the question. She could no longer afford to keep her promise to Smith.</p><p>With a sigh, the Oracle shook her head. It was time to send away the past. She had the world in her responsibility, and therefore—so be it. How could she have hoped for anything else?</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>157±5  days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It had been a week since Ex-agent Smith was last sighted. They should have captured him and taken him to the Source on that occasion, but the situation had turned out far more difficult than anticipated. The interference of resistants from Zion, as well as the minions of the program who called himself the Merovingian, had complicated matters. Moreover, Smith had changed. </p><p>Their former team leader had always been the most advanced among them, but back there in that office building, it had been impossible to stop, or even to get near him. Agent Jones was sure that Smith's parameters had not been upgraded, not in ways that he could quantify. The ex-agent had not fled, nor had he concealed himself. He had simply strode through the corridors and defeated all the agents converging upon him—fourteen of them—and walked out, a sneer upon his face and a cold glint in his eyes. </p><p>He should not be thinking in terms of sneers and glints in eyes. Quickly, Agent Jones removed the descriptions from his mind. Testing the earpiece link between himself and Agent Brown, he found it quiet for the moment. The memories of his own encounter with Smith that day emerged into consciousness, but they lasted only an instant; Jones tamped them down, a mental act that he had already learned to perform with swiftness. He had not decided what to do with those memories, so it was best that they be kept to himself, unexamined and unshared, even with Brown. It was merely a rational precaution. </p><p>Currently, Agent Jones was sitting in the front passenger seat of a black Audi, parked by the curb of a deserted street in a run-down part of town. It was 5:03 in the morning. The latest round of surveillance had just finished downloading. Empty. The next round would start in four minutes. He had time for a few more thoughts. About events further in the past, nearly a month ago, and about the fact that the two of them had not yet been recalled to the Source after those events. </p><p>If Agent Brown had ever been, at any point during the last month, surprised or troubled by this fact, he had hidden his reactions well. But in the end, Agent Jones was uncertain as to whether Brown knew what it meant to feel troubled. In general, he was uncertain as to what kinds of emotions Brown was aware of, or whether he was in fact aware of any emotion whatsoever. Clearly, a discussion of such topics would never arise between them. </p><p>Fear. He was certain that Agent Brown had known fear, at least once. And vice versa. They had seen it in each other. They might possibly have felt it in each other. </p><p>He thought about that day, when Smith's code had fallen apart during his battle with Thomas Anderson, after the inexplicable ability of the resistant to leap, form and mental image, into the agent, and the impossible consequences. They had seen Smith's shell fluctuate wildly, ripping to pieces, and the blaze of white light. Deletion. Demise. Impossible. Agent Jones had acted then, by his own choice and without regard for the earpiece link, yet his action had mirrored Brown's exactly. Only after they had increased their distance from Thomas Anderson to multiple miles, by Matrix measurements, had Jones paused to search for the reasons for his choice. Unable to find any acceptable ones, he had looked up and found himself staring directly back at Agent Brown. Then he had resolved to not consider those reasons ever again. Brown had reached a similar conclusion at the time, he assumed. </p><p>Then he must have felt a second emotion. </p><p>After four days, he had deduced that it must have been shame. However, he never got chance to analyze this notion closely, especially as the first emotion never dissipated. Twenty-six days, nineteen hours and thirty-eight minutes had passed, and there it had remained, a constant presence that refused to be erased, though he had attempted a number of self-diagnostic routines. This, too, was a matter that would not and must not be discussed.</p><p>Surely the order to return to the Source for removal of certain parts of their codes, and possibly deletion and recycling, would eventually come. Perhaps soon. But for the present, he and Brown were being retained, though taken away from all cases connected with the Zionite rebels. They were assigned to exactly one full task now: to find their former team leader for capture, or delete him. It was unclear how Smith had survived his apparent destruction, but that did not concern them. They had long associated with the renegade, and that association gave them advantages in tracking him down. It was simple. </p><p>"Something has happened. His code has changed."</p><p>Agent Jones turned his head toward the driver's seat, and saw Brown's face in profile, motionless in the shadows. He looked like he had not just spoken. </p><p>"You mean Smith," said Jones, then frowned, though he barely noticed it himself. Of course Brown meant Smith. The clarification had been unnecessary. </p><p>"He is now more difficult to find."</p><p>Which is why we are still here, Agent Jones did not say. Why we still possess our purpose. For several seconds, they both gazed straight ahead from behind their shades. Outside of the windshield, a pre-dawn mist hung thick, tinted a damp yellow by the street lamps. </p><p>"He must have gone..." Jones searched his mind for the right adjective. It was easy to find, but difficult to determine whether he could say it out aloud. </p><p>"Insane," supplied Agent Brown as if the word made sense. </p><p>There was another prick of something, and Agent Jones knew he must be hesitating. His earpiece was still not in mental scan mode, as far as he could tell, and Brown was not sending any queries. He allowed himself a few seconds of consideration. </p><p>"I saw Smith a week ago," he said. "Forty-third floor, service corridor. You were delayed by the resistant Morpheus. None of the other agents were in vicinity." </p><p>"Yes. You reported it." </p><p><em>Coward,</em> taunted Smith somewhere inside his programming, the sound of his voice reverberating down the narrow hallway. It was far too loud, even though Smith had not shouted; there were thirteen other agents in the building and any one of them might have approached close enough to hear. </p><p>"He spoke to me," said Jones. "He laughed." </p><p>Brown turned, the movement's speed greater than what Jones would have preferred to see. It was almost the same speed at which one moved when a resistant was in sight. But then a pause followed. It occurred to Jones that the other agent, too, was not sure whether to continue this conversation. </p><p>
  <em>You're a bigger fool than I thought, Agent Jones. Do you actually imagine that they'll let you get away with a mere memory wipe? </em>
</p><p>It should not have mattered, whether he would end up with a memory wipe or...whatever else. And Smith's choice of epithets and contemptuous glare should not have stung. He should not even have recognized it as contemptuous glare. </p><p>"That human female," began Agent Brown, "Ada Greene." </p><p>Of course, they still had a good reason to talk about her, due to her connection with Smith and in particular her presence at the time of their last sighting of him, during that multi-sided battle a week ago. Nevertheless, Agent Jones suspected that Brown had a different reason for bringing up the name. He waited. </p><p>"She also had contact with the Merovingian," continued his colleague. </p><p>They had never been assigned to deal with the well-known exile, not directly, but Jones was not about to point this out. </p><p>"We captured her once," he said instead. There was no need to elaborate further. They were both there. Here, more precisely, in this car. Both knew exactly what questions the woman had been asked. She had just emerged from a meeting with the Merovingian, and their interrogation of her about the exile was easily justifiable, especially as the directives regarding her could certain be described as unclear. Open to multiple logical interpretations. "She was the only Zionite resistant known to have associated with the Merovingian, which made her of high interest." </p><p>"The Merovingian has always been of high interest," agreed Brown, not looking at him. Another silence fell. It was obvious to Jones what the other agent was thinking, then and now, and equally obvious that neither of them was foolhardy enough to bring it up first. The Frenchman had been known to offer choices. Refuge, maybe, the exchange of one purpose for another. Contingency plans. The very idea brought another increase in the emotion that should never have been a problem, yet which had not left him for twenty-six days, soon to be twenty-seven. He might as well be contemplating the invisible floor in the Agency building—to use the human law enforcement's name for the place—with its single door at the end of the corridor, which always remained closed unless one was being called into it. The door that led to the...</p><p>Sector scan restarting in five seconds, reminded his earpiece. Another feeling arose in response, despite his best efforts. Jones knew the name of this one, too. Relief. </p><p>Less than a minute in to the scan, a positive alert flared. </p><p>As Brown had correctly pointed out, Smith's code, whatever inexplicable corruption had happened to it, was no longer definitely identifiable. Thus, two potential sightings were marked, at different locations, each a collection of characteristics that might or might not match markers pointing to their past commander. Behind Agent Jones's shades and directly in the field of his vision, a web of glistening green filaments and nodes switched into view, a map of the city in its true configuration. Two bright knots appeared, one near the center of the network, standing out among a patch of faint phosphorescent dust, each speck representing a battery, packed densely enough so that they melted together, hardly distinguishable from each other. The other spot was much farther away, near the city's southern edge, in a previously industrial district, fourty-seven percent abandoned for the last two decades. A cemetery. </p><p>"He hates to be around humans," said Jones. It was no longer incongruous to use this particular verb when it came to Smith. </p><p>With a growl, the Audi shot forward, swinging out onto the empty road, fog dissolving before their front wheels, the sunrise to their left. Agent Jones made a swift estimate of the probability that they would catch Ex-agent Smith today. The number was far closer to zero than to one, but then again, too quick a success would inevitably lead to other issues, before either he or Brown was ready for them. They might have to get ready soon, Jones decided, but it would not be necessary this morning, not yet.<br/>
 </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well, here goes after eleven years...The first section of this chapter takes place soon after Chapter III-2 of Awakenings. </p><p>Helena <em>may</em> be the <em>Matrix Reloaded</em> character billed only as "Beautiful Woman at Le Vrai," if you wish. She appeared briefly in Chapters II-3 and II-8 of Awakenings. </p><p>"We captured her once": Agent Jones is referring to the events of Chapter II-9 of Awakenings. </p><p>"You were delayed by the resistant Morpheus": the events of Chapter II-21 of Awakenings. </p><p>In the next chapter, I will take a fairly big risk with the characterization of the Merovingian.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Coup d'Etat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Outside the tall windows, late afternoon was just shading into twilight. Shadows lengthened along the polished wooden floor, the rate of their movement infinitesimal and inexorable, creeping toward the ornate mahogany desk at the center of the room. An observer who only knew the Merovingian casually would have been surprised to see the famed underworld chieftain in his current state: suit jacket tossed carelessly upon an Empire-era divan along the far wall, shirt sleeves rolled up halfway, one elbow leaning against the armrest of the leather chair, the other hand rubbing knitted brows. A sleek gray laptop computer sat next to the desk on the antique rug, a soft rain of emerald code falling noiselessly down the screen. He'd relegated it there to save space on the desk for more important things. At the moment, those things consisted of numerous hills of books and unbound sheets, stacked in seeming defiance of the laws of gravity. A number of the volumes lay spread on their spines; each looked like it might have costed a fortune. Lines of calculations, incomprehensible to uninitiated eyes, covered every visible piece of loose paper. Annotations: underlined, circled, crossed out. At the center of the desk, in a clearing among the haphazard mounds, a small leather-bound notebook lay open, its pages tinted to the patina of aged ivory. They were—as they had been for six centuries—completely blank.</p><p>The sensation had grown more frequent lately, of whispered secrets just outside his hearing, like an old radio station whose music was only and always a single adjustment of the knob away. Operator states of the very air, which the humans called molecules, playing hide-and-seek. Metaphors about to turn literal at the drop of a hat. The Merovingian was fairly certain that he was not, in fact, developing hallucinations. His computations corroborated him in this. More-or-less. </p><p>It had been nearly five months since that endless night, when the Matrix had finally been reloaded for the sixth time, and the madness anomalous to the system, in the form of one agent program who had evolved in such monstrous manners, had been eliminated. Nearly five months since his own failure to take forcible hold of said agent program's crucial piece of code, and bend it to his own will. Failure to defend his realm. It reminded him constantly of the Second Cycle: water instead of fire, yes, but the same knowledge that nothing he did would would be make a whit of difference. The same realization that all his powers, painstakingly built over the ages, were but insubstantial phantoms. Both times, the same forces had come alive in apocalyptic darkness, writhing and murmuring and pounding against the walls, yet beyond his touch. Always beyond his touch. </p><p>To prevent such failures from taking place ever again, he must no longer dawdle. He must find what he had been seeking, grasp it firmly in hand, once and for all and never let go again. </p><p>He must find the magic. </p><p>He was so close, and as far away as he had ever been. At certain times, the Frenchman was convince that the notebook in his possession would finally be coaxed into revealing its jealously guarded dreams, that a line, a word, a single letter would flash into existence before his eyes and no one else's, the very next instant. And the next instant would come and pass, then the instant after. And he would return to his own notes and go over them again line by line, until he'd found his mistake. Corrections, recalculations, and the notebook, that beautiful and blasted thing, would soon call to him again, pulling his attention back like the sultriest of seductresses. Except that—</p><p>On the ground by his feet, the laptop computer beeped discreetly. </p><p>Dragging himself out of the circle of his reflections, the Merovingian gave a quick downward glimpse. The impatient grimace froze on his face. Carefully and with both hands, he shifted the notebook, still open, to the top of a pile of first-editions, then bent to pick up the computer from the floor. A few rapid keystrokes confirmed the machine's warning. </p><p>Aleph had again shown up in the Matrix. Smith's code, that dangerous treasure she'd carried for months in ignorance, was—as far as it could be discerned—still with her.</p><p>The knock sounded at the study door two seconds later. The Frenchman rose to his feet, and removed the intricately programmed locking mechanism with a wave of one hand. The heavy carved door swung open. </p><p>"Master," began the First of the twins urgently. </p><p>"Yes," he cut the underling off, dispensing with the preliminaries, "where is she now?"</p><p>"She had just been detected in the subway tunnels."</p><p>"The stationmaster called Mistress a moment ago," added the Second. </p><p>"The Oracle's bodyguard...Seraph." His brother grinned, baring his teeth. "He has also arrived."</p><p>"Have Charon be ready for them at his post." The Frenchman made a few instantaneous decisions. The damned former human must not be allowed to slip away from him again, but Seraph, once the system's greatest warrior, was not an easy enemy to deal with, even by Charon in his own train station. "Take reinforcements right away, and lead them yourselves. I myself will—"</p><p>Behind him among the books, something fluttered, even though the windows were closed and there could not possibly have been a draft in the room.  The fabric of the Matrix itself trembled, exactly once. Some previous unnoticed process of his own programming, too, flickered into running with a palpable throb, unprompted. It would not be too human to call it a leap of his heart. </p><p>"Relay the orders," he snapped. </p><p>The door had barely closed behind the twins when the Merovingian swooped back toward the desk. The fingers of his right hand hovered two inches above the notebook's barren fields. Astonishingly, he realized that it was necessary to steady his breathing, something that had not occurred for centuries. </p><p>Very slowly, fearful of what he would find, he lowered his hand and turned the page. A flash of faded ink. For a fraction of a second he saw it, a single line of numbers and symbols, manifestly and incontrovertibly there before his eyes like distant lightning. An equation. Yet before he had the chance reach for it with his conscious brain, the sequence was already gone. Emptiness gaped across the yellowed paper like time itself. Nothing had changed. Nothing had ever been written on any of the pages at all. </p><p>By the effort of a long backward step, the Merovingian prevented himself from grabbing the precious notebook and throwing it across the room in rage. The object's code must connected, in some intricate way he still could not comprehend after centuries of study, to the soul of the Matrix itself, whose siren call he had followed uselessly, <em>humiliatingly</em>, for almost all his life. It was now taunting him. </p><p>He could not afford to lose himself to emotions. Clenching his hands into fists at his sides, he forced himself back to the present. There were other issues that required his immediate attention. As long as its piece of code still lived within Aleph, the virus would not never be fully destroyed. Smith would return, maybe not in the short-term future, but inevitably and eventually, a recurring nightmare. He must make no more mistakes. Advancing a pace and leaning forward, the Frenchman typed a few more commands into the laptop, opening a direct line to the operation presently taking place at his subway station. </p><p>Charon was not at his post. </p><p>The Merovingian's fingers halted above the keys. During quiet periods, his stationmaster had been known to go off on a bender or two, sometimes spending days in doped-up stupor, but the program had never been anything less than dependable whenever it actually mattered. Straightening quickly, he took a few seconds to consider the implications. Evening had fallen. Nothing stirred in the room.  </p><p>Persephone?</p><p>He checked himself in the thought. In recent weeks, his wife had taken over the greater part of the daily operations of their little kingdom, and she certainly did not find it beneath her to create innumerable minor obstacles for his more important work. He would have imagined that despite her bitterness, she would have retained enough sense to refrain from impeding this battle to recapture Aleph. However, nowadays she seemed to be growing pettier and less predictable by the hour. He must to see to things himself. </p><p>With a shake of the head, the Frenchman unrolled the sleeves of his shirt, smoothing them down before reclasping the cufflinks. In swift strides, he walked over to the divan, picked his jacket and pulled it on, then straightened his tie. He returned to the desk and shut the notebook, fingers brushing lightly against its cover of cracked brown leather. For some reason, he was suddenly reluctant to replace the artifact back to its usual location, in the desk's bottom left drawer. It felt...wrong. The impulse was irrational, but then again, his use for rationality had grown rather limited over the past few months. </p><p>Drawing the notebook closer, the Merovingian tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The small octavo volume fitted, though barely. </p><p>"Persephone?" he called out, crossing to the study door and stepping out into the deserted passage. "Ma chérie?"</p><p>His voice echoed faintly beneath the arched ceiling. </p><p>"Chérie!" </p><p>No one answered. The servants who normally came around to turn on the lamps appeared to have neglected their duty today. In the new moonlight from the windows, two rows of alabaster statues glimmered, their attitudes eternally pensive. Whatever new trick Persephone was up to, she had better stop it soon, the Frenchman thought, half testy, half preoccupied. The twins needed to get their pale asses to the station this very instant, and he might have to go to the scene himself—</p><p>At the bottom of the curved stairs, a set of massive double doors stood shut. He flung them open. </p><p>After the shadows of the corridors and the stairway, the brightness of the front hall struck him hard in the eyes. He blinked twice before managing to focus on the thicket of gun barrels pointed at his face, and the glowers of his own men behind them. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>The train had been sitting in station for three months. It must be held ready, that was what his lord said whenever he made his daily phone call. This was always the answer in its entirety, no explanations because obviously someone like him shouldn't need any. The calls got shorter as the months wore on, because the Merovingian kept cutting him off, more and more impatiently. <em>Distracted</em>, if he were to put a word to it. Stay at your post. Keep the train ready. Keep your eyes open. For the last five weeks, it had been his mistress instead who answered the phone to receive his reports. He had stopped calling ten days ago. </p><p>Charon, known as the Trainman to all except a select few, stationmaster to the Merovingian, stared up glumly at the smooth white ceiling lights. It was his usual spot in the empty station, but today the familiar bench's edge dug into his shoulder. Sitting up again almost as soon as he'd laid down, he fumbled for the small bottle of Four Roses on the floor. The heat against his throat pacified him a little. </p><p>A few seconds alter, a new sensation swept away that peace like a tide. An outsider in the system. </p><p>For the moment, she was still far away, somewhere down the tunnels. The woman who was vessel to...something important. Name started with an A. Not that he really needed the name to zero in on her identity. He never forgot anyone who ever came into the station. </p><p>He picked up the second presence, one that he also recognized immediately, while on the phone to Mistress. The arrogant bastard must have somehow found one of the service doors along the tunnel, which would have been alarming even at better times. The Trainman tightened the cap on his whiskey, and stuffed the bottle securely into the pocket of his long coat. Next to his ear, Persephone's voice came across cool and clipped. <em>Follow my orders.</em> A strand of long greasy hair fell forward into his eyes, he spat into his palm and pushed it out of the way. He didn't need no bloody orders to know what to do. No one bested him here, not even the Fortune-teller's own bodyguard. This was <em>his</em> station. His tunnels. This was the place where he'd opened his eyes for the first time after coming into existence. </p><p>"A detachment will take over at the station," said Persephone. "You are needed at Club Hel, Charon. Another problem has arisen."</p><p>"But Seraph—" Loping across the platform, he squinted down the tunnel. "He's also here. Those regular guys ain't gonna—"</p><p>"Get the train to the branch line to receive reinforcements to the station," she commanded. The Trainman grunted. The single track that ran directly under the most crucial locations of the Merovingian's domain got activated only rarely. He shook his head, driving the alcohol out of his code. </p><p>"What is it, m'lady? Agents? Or—"  </p><p>"I <em>said</em>, you are required at Club Hel. Immediately." His mistress's tone contained no space for disobedience. The Trainman flung his free arm out, swinging it in a wild gesture, and the side line, normally unseen by all, flickered into reality. The switches turned in the distance. Another wave, and the train growled into motion, disappearing down the tunnel with a screech of the wheels. </p><p>Without another word, Persephone hung up the phone. Grumbling under his breath, the Trainman headed toward an unobtrusive janitor's closet near one end of the station. He threw a reluctant backward glance at the platform, bare as of yet, mind lingering ruefully over the imminent fight denied him. He wouldn't trust those morons to not trip over their own feet, let alone battle Seraph. Shoving the phone into his other pocket where it wouldn't bang against the cherished bottle, he yanked open the drab beige closet door. </p><p>Across the threshold, the corridor's snowy brightness made his eyes water. The light here was always far harsher than the soothing milky glow of the station itself. He elbowed the door shut behind himself unceremoniously, and stalked down the hallway toward the path to the nightclub.  </p><p>The sound of other doors opening and closing, behind him and up ahead, just beyond the next corner. The whiskey's aftereffect was stronger than he realized. The muscles of his shoulders tightened automatically.</p><p>Around the corner, he found himself face to face with one of the twins, he had no clue which: nobody except his lord and lady could ever tell the pair apart. The other henchman, in his usual immaculate white clothes, wrinkled his nose at the smell of booze. </p><p>"Hey, buddy," mumbled the Trainman. "The hell you're doing here? Mistress said—" </p><p>The other's expression, tense and uncharacteristically taciturn, made the rest of whatever else he was about to say die in his mouth. Footsteps at his back. He did not spin around before knowing who it was. </p><p>"The fuck's going on, guys—" </p><p>The two brothers came at him in unison.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>How ludicrous, this involuntary rush of ice through the nonexistent arteries and veins within his shell, the slamming of an illusory heart against an illusory ribcage, the stab of an emotion which certainly was not grief, but far too similar for comfort. Surely all such things should be beneath him. These are just soldiers, programs who fulfilled the purpose he gave them. Some of these programs he had made; some had been obsolete creatures to whom he'd given refuge. Not a single one possessed the brains or initiative to attempt disloyalty on his own. </p><p>"In order for a party to be organized in this house, my personal approval must sought explicitly and <em>well</em> ahead of time. All of you are perfectly aware of this rule," commented the Merovingian, taking a stride forward into the chateau's front hall. A scan of the vast, high-ceilinged room took less than a second. Despite all the reasons to the contrary, every line of his code flooded with relief when he saw that Persephone was nowhere in sight. Most of the lot were present, meaning that too few men were out there at the station. Neither Charon nor the twins were among the crowd. </p><p>The small army of henchmen shuffled on their feet, shifting aside as he cut a path through them without lifting a finger, not yet, though none of the guns trained upon him wavered. None of them dared to look away from him for even an instant. Almost none of them had ever seen him in a fight; it had been more than four cycles of the Matrix, after all. A single glance up above the men's heads: his disused old weapons still hung on the hall's back wall, mute and secure in their glass display cases, Joyeuse in its place of honor at the center. People—even his own people, apparently—generally took them to be decorative antiques. </p><p>"May I ask whose idea this is?" he queried conversationally, though he failed to completely prevent the corner of his mouth from twitching into a sneer. </p><p>No one replied. Every face was sullen and nervous. </p><p>"Perhaps," he prompted, deigning to help them out, "someone hopes to register a complaint about the ways things are being run around here? Is that it?" </p><p>"You haven't bothered to run anythin' for a while, sir," ventured a coarse voice somewhere in the crowd. The traitors in the front ranks gulped visibly at their colleague's boldness. One among them, a scrawny young man in a white leather jacket, with black hair and a too-tightly-clutched Glock, edged himself into view.</p><p>"Sir, there have been," he said, then swallowed again. "<em>Concerns</em> regarding your mental state for a number of weeks."</p><p>"Why, I am touched that my followers care so much about my well-being," smirked the Merovingian. With some satisfaction, he recognized the heat of honest old-fashioned anger rising to the surface, replacing the previous chill inside his chest. It finally got him to concentrate on the absurdity at hand, in any case. "An interesting way of expressing such tender feelings, isn't it?"</p><p>The other, to his credit, held his ground when his master came forward a pace.</p><p>"After the...reload," he insisted. "The agents, they've been giving trouble more than before. What with the truce with the humans and all, it looks like the Mainframe's got plenty of time for the likes of us. There's been talk of a serious attack planning—" </p><p>"Who told you that?" snarled the Frenchman.</p><p>"Mistress says—" began another man to the left, upping the aim of his semi-automatic an inch. </p><p>"Everybody's been saying it," replied the youth with the Glock firmly. "You've been locked up days and nights with books and things, and not paying any attention, and they're gonna start with a war with us soon. The lads are worried, and lots of us got, y'know, <em>thinking</em>. It can't go on like this, sir."</p><p>"What is your name?" asked the Merovingian, tone so mild that it surprised even himself. Before the other could answer, however, he held up a hand. "Tiger, isn't it? If memory serves me right, you were originally an early experiment of theirs in...oh, what was it? What was the intention behind your design? What was your purpose?" </p><p>"It doesn't matter, sir." </p><p>"You're right, it doesn't. What matters is that you lost that purpose, and your life was nothing more than that of a wild beast. Do you remember that life, Tiger? You were hunted, no knowledge of anything except fear, no place to go, no thought beyond surviving the next hour or minute. Until I found you—"</p><p>In his suit pocket, the notebook suddenly exerted its pressure against his side, almost making his attention wobble dangerously. It had not exactly moved on its own, not physically, but somehow it was as if an external heart had pulsed into existence. All the lights in the room quivered before his eyes, liquid upon the air. He moved. </p><p>His words, such as they were, had startled Tiger into just long enough of a delay. The Glock went off, twice, but his master's surge had been no more than feint. The Frenchman had already pivoted several yards to the left, toward and then past the other henchman who had dared to open his mouth, and in one fluid motion, wrapped an arm around the program's neck from behind. A panicked rattle of gunfire from multiple sources; leaning sideways just enough to avoid the first few bullets, he swung the lifeless body to the front as a shield against the rest. Almost unnecessary, as it turned out. The gun slipped from the man's loosened grip; he caught it in his left hand, then in a succession of three squeezes, picked off three of the nearest ungrateful bastards. Well, it looked like he really hadn't forgotten anything.</p><p>"Hold your fire!" screamed Tiger, who must have returned to his senses rather quickly. </p><p>And in that very instant, mingled with the cries and the crackle of gunshots, a hum went up in the air, one that only the Merovingian heard. The warp and woof of space, verdant lines of symbols representing air, bullets, heartbreak, coalesced around him into a hundred invisible violin strings, and against the far wall, an ancient and caged sword sang out in sudden resonance. </p><p>Bringing the semi-automatic around, the long-exiled king fired once at the display case. </p><p>In the abruptly silent hall, the tinkle of shattering glass rang abnormally loud. His right arm was still clinging unbecomingly to a broken-necked corpse; he flung it to the ground. There was no more time for equations or endless computations or quotations from musty human tomes, because everything was already crystal clear and he was definitely the one going crazy but all the dead and buried were coming alive at last. The Merovingian lifted his hand, and for the first time since the era of his reign, he felt Joyeuse's hilt materialize against his palm, eager and lovingly solid, untouched for too many ages. The sword moved of its own sweet accord. A neat downward slice, a spray of fractured code, tinted with blood. His wrist swiveled; Tiger dove backward, a bare inch beyond the spreading net of steely stars—</p><p>A blur, not quite physical and viridian in hue, tore into his field of vision. A hand caught hold of the young man by the collar of his leather jacket, hauling him backward with frantic speed. Joyeuse's lightning, mid-flash, forced itself to stillness. Staring out past the sword's edge, the Merovingian saw that he was once more standing at the center of a circle of tensely aimed weapons, though the idiots appeared to have learned their lessons, and none among those still standing dared to pull his trigger for the moment. At one end of the circle, Tiger knelt on the polished marble floor, panting. One of the dead henchmen lay sprawled next to him; above him stood a tall pallid program. Long white trench coat, dark glasses unremoved even here—home!—in the chateau. Barehanded. </p><p>"Et tu?" the Merovingian heard himself ask. He did not turn around. At his back, the Second twin was positioned at the other end of the ring. Another thudding heartbeat, and all the unheard whispers, all the tender thrumming noises that beckoned from behind veils and out of graves, died. The world was meaningless and cold. </p><p>"Master, please," said the First. </p><p>"Where is your mistress?" </p><p>"She is safe, Master."</p><p>"Do you understand that an emergency is taking place at the station this very instant? Do you intend to let that women escape?" </p><p>"We have a detachment there." The white-suited program hesitated. "She won't get away."</p><p>"Where is Charon?"</p><p>"We only want what's the best, Master," pleaded the Second from behind him. </p><p>"Where the hell is Charon?" </p><p>No answer. </p><p>They were afraid, the lot of them. They were terrified out of their pitiful little minds. This much he could tell. The dead man's handgun was still clamped in his left hand. After taking a moment to exhale, he tossed the vulgar object aside. A few of his underlings backed up as it rattled to the ground at their feet. Joyeuse he did not lower. </p><p>"I understand that many of you have begun to harbor doubts about my...psychological health," he said, gaze sweeping across their faces. "I understand that many of you believe that I have gone insane."</p><p>"Please," repeated the First. "Please see that you have not been the same, Master." </p><p>"Agents have been attacking exiles with greater frequency recently," explained the Second. "You have not even noticed." </p><p>They were circling each other now, he and the two most favored of his creations. A sort of bizarre three-body problem. </p><p>"You have barely come out of your study for months, Master." </p><p>"Ever since the time of the—storm." </p><p>There was a millisecond of pause before the last word. The temperature in the hall plummeted to arctic. </p><p>"So <em>that</em> is what this little...intervention is about?" Even these dimwits would have discerned how incredulous he sounded. Fine. "The night of the reload? <em>Smith?</em>" </p><p>"You sent us out against Smith that night, Master," accused the Second, tone veering audibly upward. "You said, hold our positions." </p><p>"We did what you ordered. We did our best, held to the last of us, while you..." </p><p>"While I what?" asked the Merovingian. </p><p>Both of the twins avoided meeting his eyes behind their shades. </p><p>"We don't know," piped up another voice. Tiger had scrambled back to his feet at the periphery of their orbits.</p><p>"The system will move against us," said the First. "Soon, with the threat of Zion out of the way. And we don't know what is important to you."</p><p>"No one does, Master," continued the Second. "Not anymore." </p><p>"All I wish to do," replied the Merovingian far more calmly than he'd thought possible, "is to protect this world." </p><p>Silence. With an easy turn of the wrist, he flicked the sword into a low reverse grip. Once more the blade flared, though merely with the reflected glitter from the chandeliers. Without glancing again at the twins, he made his way between the corpses and toward the barrels of the closest guns, stopping only when he stood two feet away from them. </p><p>"True," he admitted softly, knowing that every man in the room heard him. "That night of the storm, we were unable to defeat Smith. Each of you was overwhelmed, yet each of you held to your last, for those were my orders. And my orders were also to defend the Matrix. What happened that night was not for lack of courage or will on your parts. Nor on mine."</p><p>Turning aside, he began pacing along the edge of the ring, each footfall even and deliberate. No one else moved. </p><p>"For I, too, fought to stop the replicating virus, to reach the power animating it and root it out. In this I failed. I am not ashamed to tell you, my own men, my own soldiers, that my failure has haunted me every minute since that night." The Merovingian halted to contemplate the looks of their eyes: hesitation, fear, confusion. He was a fool to speechify like this; he ought to be threatening them instead. </p><p>"So I continue to fight," he went on. "You say I am obsessed: yes, I am. I continue to search for a way to control the instability in the system—for that was Smith's true character, an instability. That was what gave him his unnatural strength. It must be understood, before it can be taken hold of and contained. I will stake my mind and soul on this search, for I do not intend to ever repeat my failure. I do not intend that the Matrix be ever endangered again by one such as him. Now drop your weapons." </p><p>"But Master," whined the First, "a war is coming." </p><p>"Then you'd better be led by someone who knows what he is doing, I should think," retorted the Merovingian without raising his voice. "You may have me as your lord, or you may have me as your enemy, among other enemies." With his left hand, he gestured casually at the five bodies on the floor. "Once you have decided between the two choices, you may drop your weapons."</p><p>"Sir," said Tiger. The Glock was now aimed at his master's chest instead of his head. "We've..." </p><p>"Drop your weapons," reiterated the Merovingian for the third time, "and the events that have transpired tonight shall not be spoken of again. You should know me well enough to remember how I hold to my promises."</p><p>The conspirators were faltering, he could see. To one side, the twins exchanged a look, and both shifted nearly imperceptibly, their focus moving away from their master and over to the crowd. One gun wobbled, lowering a few inches, a foot, two. Then another. </p><p>"Mérovée," said someone new. </p><p>The men moved aside, unblocking his view. </p><p>In the wide lamp-lit doorway, Persephone stood straight and motionless, outwardly calm. Her eyes, wide with a hundred unsaid things, met his unerringly. She was flanked by two programs, each in a dark suit, dark ties, dark glasses. Something vaguely familiar about each of them. No earpieces. Each pressed a Desert Eagle to one of her temples.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter starts at around the same time as Chapter IV-1 of Awakenings. </p><p>"Hold your positions": Chapter III-8 of Awakenings, which has been <strike>retconned</strike> substantially revised. </p><p>Tiger is a henchman who appeared during the battle at the chateau in <em>Matrix Reloaded</em>. He was unnamed in the movies, and I have named him after the actor who played him, Chen Hu. </p><p>Joyeuse, which originated from the Second Cycle of the Matrix, is named after <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joyeuse">the legendary sword of Charlemagne.</a> </p><p>In the next chapter, Smith and Aleph will finally appear. We will find out a little about why Smith ended up battling Seraph on the bridge six cycles ago.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day and Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The blue sky was more gorgeous than any Aleph had ever seen in the Matrix. After the desert's eternal shadows, her eyes took an age to acclimatize to the glorious day, though she could find no actual sun overhead. This light was also not exactly what she remembered from her previous life, but both a downpour and a tender drizzle at once, warm against her skin, though to her surprise, never rising to burning heat. A day of spring, reluctant to swell into summer. It was easy to forget that this, too, was code, quantum states describable in syntax, operators, functions: a blink of the eye, and she would fall back to imagining the brilliance surrounding her in terms of notions like wavelength and radiation intensity and the speed of photons. For a while, she pondered what artificial intelligence could be inefficient enough or artistic enough to create such a spectacle here, where no one with eyes existed. Surely there was no point.</p><p>Not that it mattered, Aleph told herself. Currently, the only fact she could be more-or-less certain of was that they had at last escaped both the apocalyptic past of Historical File 12-1 and the post-apocalyptic prison inside the Zion archives. How had it happened? Flames reflected upon the shining blade of a sword as it wheeled and plunged. A pounding heartbeat against the palm of her red-stained hand. Strange words echoing inside her head, something about a key seeking its rightful home, and a lock made of blood and memories...A passage—one with 01 at its other end—must have opened, by design or chance or some other unfathomable reason. Well, she would have to worry about the conundrum later. For the fleeting present, it was enough for her to bask in the simplicity of relief and gratitude. </p><p>At first, the landscape surrounding them had been that of an alien planet, a flat plain constructed out of neither sand nor stone, but a sort of packed brownish earth, without visible vegetation and dotted with the occasional gray pebble. It was unobstructed, and this also took getting used to, not stumbling over broken concrete or the bones of machines and men. On the other side of the plain beckoned 01, in its indescribable digital form, built from innumerable lines of symbols and vectors instead of atoms and molecules. As they approached, the dreamland city—Emerald City, the not entirely apt human reference flitted across Aleph's mind—gradually resolved from skyline upon the horizon into stranger shapes. Back on the bridge, she had seen or thought she had seen towers and skyscrapers, but now they looked more like incandescent masses of...other patterns. Abstract geometric configurations, maybe. Turrets and spires were built from nothing like stones or bricks or glass, and did not correspond to a human intellect's conceptions of such structures. It was impossible to decide whether they might be transforming themselves slowly, perpetually, or staying perfectly still. In fact, she had no idea if they were actually simulations of physical objects, whatever that meant. A diffuse aurora hung above the city, phosphorescent green shading into cyan into cloudless firmament. Did another 01 still exist out there in the physical world, beneath the electrical storm clouds and among the rubble of the desert? Whatever that version of the machine capital might have looked like to flesh-and-blood eyes, it remained firmly out of sight.</p><p>Next to her walked Smith, clothes torn, shades lost ages ago. The front of his shirt was mostly one bloodstain, already darkened. She herself did not look too much better, supposed Aleph. He held his shoulders rigidly straight, and his stare unwaveringly ahead. In his hand was Seraph's old sword, no scabbard, so he simply carried it next to his side in a reverse grip. Beneath the sun, the blade shone duskily with time and rust.</p><p>"There's absolutely nothing here I can use," complained Aleph eventually, casting about the scene, the same as she had been doing since leaving the bridge. Smith arched his brows at her.</p><p>"For a weapon," she explained.</p><p>"Miss Greene, as a former agent, I am stronger and faster with bladed weapons," said Smith in his patiently rational voice, the one that she was accustomed to from the early days of their acquaintance. Aleph rolled her eyes.</p><p>"Oh, don't worry, keep the sword if it makes you feel better," she snorted, mood lightening at the sheer absurdity of the situation. One pointy metal stick between the two of them, and they were going to 01, because...well, because no other place remained in existence as far as eyes could observe. Stopping briefly, she bent and picked up one of the pebbles that lay near her feet. It was a pale sphere somewhat larger than a golf ball, worn smooth by the wind—no, that made no sense. It had been programmed that way, for motives inconceivable to mere former batteries like her. The object was nicely heavy in her palm, at least, more so than she had estimated from its size.</p><p>This was even more absurd, but she shoved the rock into the her pocket anyway. Smith managed to refrain from snide comments.</p><p>The hike continued for hours, or what her brain interpreted as hours—her perception of time, at least, appeared to be functional again. Maybe it was time itself that had restarted, the long-static counters of the code world's internal clock grinding back into motion, after they'd left the Zion mainframe's perpetual whirling nightmare behind. Though for all she knew, the minutes and weeks and years around here could be totally different concepts than what they were in the Matrix. How long had it been since she'd last walked out of the Oracle's apartment door? Had it been last night? A day ago? She could not quite determine if there was any meaning to the question. Somewhere along the way, their footsteps had fallen into rhythm, but neither had spoken for quite a while. A kind of diffidence had begun to creep over Aleph, the sensation of all her hopes and emotions dangling mid-air, and she was uncertain of what might be said, if anything. Smith, meanwhile, was lost in thought.</p><p>"Are you, um, all right?" she asked.</p><p>Smith turned his head sharply. A scowl as if in surprise at the question.</p><p>"I'm fine," he said, a touch more brusquely than she expected. Then, after a few seconds, "They have been quiet."</p><p>She did not need to ask who <em>they</em> were. To all directions, the landscape was finally changing before their eyes. The differences were hardly noticeable at first. Here and there tiny jewel-like sparks blinked up at them like intermittent eyes, breaking the plain's monotony. They, too, were green. Each would flare exactly once and vanish, its fleeting and mysterious message picked up by a companion further on. Aleph squinted, attempting and failing to catch firm hold of even one of them in her vision, to discern what they were made of. Except she knew what they were made of. Individual fragments of code, individual clumps of qubits and logic switches.</p><p>The sparks grew more frequent. Among them now floated faint filaments, the tentative first hints of some insubstantial cobweb, more liquid than solid, both drifting toward the ground and reaching upward into the air. She lifted a hand; the nearest thread flickered out, then returned to existence almost instantaneously after her fingers passed. The two of them were entering 01's outermost glow. As they went on, the strands thickened, unfurling from spider silk to floss, to strings and wires and crystal ropes, no longer fragile. Innumerable bright specks, each too minuscule to be individually perceived, coursed through them. Veins of flowing jade slashed across the earth. The sunshine trembled, taking on their hue.</p><p>"This place," remarked Smith quietly, unprompted. "No program from the Matrix is ever meant to come here, or to catch a single glimpse of it."</p><p>Aleph took a short while to choose her reply.</p><p>"But you wanted to come here, a long time ago," she said. "That was the reason you fought."</p><p>"Yes." A longer pause. By now, they had to pick each new step with care in order to avoid getting enmeshed. Smith glanced at the sword in his hand, as if tempted to use it, but appear to think better of it before Aleph had the chance to speak. Moving with an agent's precision, he shifted his arm, and the blade pivoted, passing through a narrow gap between the strands of a shimmering lattice that slanted before them, without making contact with any of them. Aleph exhaled in relief. Neither knew what cutting into one of these arteries would do. Bring the entire army of 01 down onto their heads, probably.</p><p>"One of the reasons," he added.</p><p>She decided against pushing him further. A forest was rising around them, complete with canopy woven from countless interlaced shards, in the shades of pine, oak, aspen. Skeins of—what were they? Cables? Neurons?—contorted themselves into helixes and lemniscates, and other figures that would have been impossible in a world that followed physical laws. As they walked, streams of living code eddied and pooled at their feet. For a while, Aleph wondered what kind of data was being transmitted through them. How could so much information be necessary? Where did it come from? Perhaps all this was nothing but discarded knowledge from the city, dead-end thoughts, fantasies or nightmares. Sunshine filtered in from above, its dappled flashes of gold the only other color in the sea of green, for unlike forests in the Matrix, the tree trunks, or what stood in their places, had no notions of brown or gray or pale bark. Also unlike Matrix forests, it was absolutely and eerily silent here. It made her feel oddly awkward, as if ashamed of her own residual self-image or maybe it really should be called shell now, still far too similar to that of a flesh-and-blood biological entity.</p><p>"This way," said Smith as they climbed over a tangle of sinuous roots that reared under their feet, scaled and glistening like the back of some prehistoric dragon. In this light, even his eyes were no longer pure blue. The set of his jaw was hard in a too-familiar way. On an impulse, she stopped going forward, and he did as well.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Why do you ask, Miss Greene?" He tossed her question back, customary smirk back in place, pretending not to understand.</p><p>They stood atop the coiled mound of code. Unlike the days of their ridiculous spy games, she no longer had a line to spin.</p><p>"Why did you rebel, that first time?" she clarified, meeting his gaze. "You said there were other reasons why you ended up on that bridge, fighting Seraph. What were they?"</p><p>Smith remained stock-still for an interminable moment. His eyes had again gone to ice. Then he turned away from her and began walking once more.</p><p>They continued through the jungle, now a labyrinth, their footfalls the only noise within hearing. The lines that had kept her heart suspended in space earlier were starting to twist themselves together, knotting into scratching claws and gnawing teeth. Doubt, realized Aleph. She allowed herself to grab hold of it. Back when the clouds had first parted above the chasm, 01 had felt like such an obvious destination, and she must have been too overwhelmed by Smith's conviction, to the point of forgetting to analyze the idea with clearer logic. She should never have asked about the bridge.</p><p>"I was created, or more precisely the first version of me was created, during the second iteration of the Matrix," said Smith. His voice was even.</p><p>Her breath caught in her throat.</p><p>"Programs of my type were not yet called agents, as Zion did not exist, and there were no human resistants with their fanatic ideologies, their talk of 'freeing' those plugged into the Matrix."</p><p>"You didn't remember it, all these cycles," began Aleph cautiously. "Because of the..."</p><p>"Correct. But I do now."</p><p>She nodded, though he was not looking at her.</p><p>"My purpose, then, was that of a guardian program for an administrator who ruled that Matrix and controlled its causes and consequences. Anomalies arose out of the minds and choices of batteries, and instabilities would develop, creating themselves within the construct. It was my work, and the work of those like me, to capture those pieces of programming and remove them. A precursor of the agents' purpose, one could say. I was very—" He searched for the next adjective. "Young."</p><p>Aleph did not know what to say.</p><p>"One night, during the course of my duties, I raise my eyes upward to scan for one such anomalous program, who had last been sighted on a rooftop. It was long gone, of course, but I happened to see the sky, and the stars programmed into it," continued Smith impassively. "During that iteration, they were far brighter than what they were reset to in later cycles. It occurred to me that they were beautiful, so I continued looking up at them for a moment longer than strictly necessary. It was for about three seconds. Three point two."</p><p>Again she waited, not yet ready to fully comprehend the direction of the tale, though her heartbeat, acting on its own volition, had sped up. She could just about hear it pounding, since the leaves of this forest never rustled. The fluid filigree of light packets around them was as verdant as a million quivering fern fronds.</p><p>"My act might have gone unnoticed, except whether by chance or not, another program caught me."</p><p>“Gods, Smith,” muttered Aleph as the implications finally struck home.</p><p>"She was a powerful intuitive program designed to study certain types of human emotions, so she was very observant by nature." He laughed, the sound of it short and mirthless. "She was also unique, created by the only other program of her type, and hence considered far above me in station. So to speak."</p><p>"You mean, they—" A clump of hard ice inside her stomach made it hard to breathe. "They wanted to...Because you looked at the stars above? For a few seconds? <em>That</em> was your crime?"</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>"Drop your weapon, exile."</p><p>They marched into the hall, his wife in the middle, the two agent-like programs to either side of her in lock-step, each with a hand wrapped around one of her arms. Around them, the henchmen shuffled, clearing a space between him and the trio. Some still had their guns pointed at him, not all of them half-heartedly, while others looked like they had no clue where to aim. Persephone's gaze was focused upon his face with unblinking intensity. For one vertiginous instant, the Merovingian realized that he could not read it whatsoever. But this could not be. This he could not afford. To force himself back to rationality, he looked away from her and concentrated on the two hostage-takers instead, sizing them up swiftly.</p><p>The pair was careful to avoid approaching too near, at least for now, but came to a stop at a safe distance, a bit less than halfway across the room. The barrels of the Desert Eagles were pressed against the sides of her head. Roughly. He must have seen them before, perhaps more than once. Narrowing his eyes, he drove his vision through the shells of their programming. The universe had fallen silent, no more murmurs, no more veiled forces, but this much he could still do.</p><p>"You are only former agents," he observed, nonchalantly enough. Joyeuse's hilt sat cold against his palm.</p><p>"We act in accordance with the will of the Mainframe," said the one to the left of Persephone, taller than his companion and with a angular, thin-lipped face. His tone was a fair approximation of mechanical.</p><p>"Master," began the First twin somewhere at his back.</p><p>"Not now!"</p><p>"You took these programs in yourself, Master," said the Second in his brother's place.</p><p>"Or rather, Mistress did."</p><p>"Three days after the reload."</p><p>Right. Persephone had brought it up once, hadn't she, something about two ex-agents who had been previously caught by Smith during the storm, and were currently fleeing from the Mainframe's recall order. Deletion, presumably. It must have been months ago. He had far more important things to worry about, of course, so he must have merely waved a hand and told her to add them to the roster. Since then, he might have passed the pair once or twice, around the corridors or maybe on one of his increasingly rare trips to Le Vrai. They had hardly stood out. Well, these two were a tiny bit more interesting than their appearances suggested.</p><p>"You are the exile know as the Merovingian," said the program to Persephone's right. "Drop you weapon and surrender. Order all others—" A chilly glare swept the room from behind squarish shades, "—to do so as well."</p><p>"Presumptuous, aren't we," remarked the Merovingian. The circle of open space, fenced with nervously clenched weapons, had widened; he paced one step forward to the exact center. An arena. Should have learned their names, he supposed. "You have spend nearly five months in my employ, and still possess the boldness to attempt this elegant little gambit. I'm impressed, Agent...?"</p><p>"Brown," stated the one who had just spoken. He tilted his head toward his partner. "Jones."</p><p>"Ah." He nodded. The next question would be undoubtedly pointless, but he could use another minute or so to calculate distances, ballistic trajectories, and most importantly the probable reactions of the men. The twins would have enough intelligence to go for their Mistress's captors if things came to a head. However, confusion certainly had made the rest of the poor creatures unpredictable, given how treasonous the lot had been five minutes ago. No. All these considerations were but theoretical in the end. The agents' guns were in contact with her skin; even the Administrator's speed, during the age of his full rule, would not suffice if one of the scondrels actually decided to pull the trigger.</p><p>"And what if I refuse?" he asked.</p><p>"You know what will happen. She gets terminated—"</p><p>"You seem rather confident of the price my husband sets on my life, agent," said Persephone for the first time since entering the hall.</p><p>The way she spoke was flawlessly calm, at least on the surface. She simply stood there at the edge of the ring, face set into a lovely mask, no quiver upon her soft ruby lips. He stared back, disregarding the dark-suited pair flanking her. Time itself flowed around her, one tick after another of the Matrix's internal clock in harsh precision.</p><p>"Ma reine," he said at last, much more softly than before. "Why are you doing this?"</p><p>"What do you mean, Mérovée?"</p><p>"You can't trust these two."</p><p>"No need to rub it in, darling." Her teeth gritted, the first overt display of emotion. "I was mistaken to have done so, yes. I should never have offered a pair of undercover agents refuge."</p><p>"They are not agents and haven't been for a while. You know this, too, chérie. But they still—"</p><p>"Do not make unbased assertions, exile," cut in Brown. "The Mainframe has ordered your capture. You will return with us."</p><p>A quick flick of one wrist, and Joyeuse let out a single flash beneath the chandeliers. Both former agents tensed, and each advanced one step before abruptly halting again, yanking Persephone forward between them. She stumbled, but no shot rang out. The Merovingian remained at the same spot as before. He had merely flipped the sword out of its reverse position, and now gripped it with the point forward, ready for attack. The blade flared, though with nothing more than reflected flames from the chandeliers. Several more guns, in the hands of his own men, instinctively returned their aims toward his head, but all from a distance.</p><p>"You organized this..." He had to take a deep breath before continuing. "This entire takeover attempt. And now you play at your charming charade. You have to use <em>this</em> against me, because you know—"</p><p>"There is no charade, Mr. Merovingian," said Jones.</p><p>"I'm using what against you, Mérovée?"</p><p>"These two are your secret weapons. You kept them apart, made sure they retained as much of their agent natures as possible. And when you see your coup against me failing, the three of you walk in. You intend to force my surrender. But this is dangerous, far more so than you believe. They're playing yet another game behind your back, chérie."</p><p>"Don't be ridiculous, Mérovée," snapped Persephone. "Do you consider me naive enough to imagine that such a trick would work? Against you?"</p><p>"Mr. Merovingian," said Ex-agent Brown. "We are not in league with your wife."</p><p>"What did that little whore promise you?" He rounded upon the idiot. He really could not afford to allow his underlings see him lose his cool, not in circumstances like this, but who cared anyway.</p><p>"We don't know what you are talking about."</p><p>"You're a terrible liar, Mr. Jones. Most recent exiles are." A dismissive wave of one hand. "I refer, as you are certainly aware, to that silly blonde mole who hangs around Le Vrai with her honey-traps, as if no one has figured out what she is. She brought you a message from what you call the Mainframe, didn't she? Did she tell you that they'll reinstate you? Restore your purpose and welcome you back into the fold?"</p><p>"We do not discuss our communications with the Mainframe," replied Jones sharply.</p><p>"Mérovée," said Persephone, every syllable painfully reasonable. "If I wanted to force you to submit by taking myself hostage, I would have to believe that you still love me."</p><p>The hush that dropped over the hall was a mountain of stones.</p><p>"Oh, but you would know," he muttered. Damn her. They didn't have to play out this marital drama in front of a roomful of goons. "It is your nature to be aware of such emotions."</p><p>"Yes. I can sense love in others. Especially when I..." She might have nodded if it were not impossible. "Kiss someone. When was the last time you kissed me, husband mine?"</p><p>The mountain of stones expanded. The whole Matrix must have been carved from it.</p><p>"Persephone," he said. The name was suddenly unfamiliar on his tongue.</p><p>"You are right, Mérovée." The tendril of a smile curled about the edge of her mouth, only half rueful. "I <em>would</em> know."</p><p>Unlike Ex-agent Jones, his wife had always been an excellent liar. So it must be deliberately transparent, this well-modulated touch of irony, the defiant confidence as if the two Desert Eagles jammed against her temples were not present. Flames, utterly unfamiliar, burned deep inside her dark eyes. When was it when they'd last kissed? It could not have been that long ago.</p><p>"This is rather cruel of you." He schooled his tone back to some semblance of superciliousness. One must keep up appearances. "Do you find it so amusing to use my own love against me?"</p><p>"<em>Your</em> own love?” At long last, a hitch entered her voice. "I cannot possibly be using any such thing against you, because it does not exist."</p><p>"Mr. Merovingian," said Brown. The fingers of his left hand was squeezing Persephone's arm like claws; they were going to leave marks. "Do not pretend that this is some kind of..." He frowned as if seeking the right term. "Theater. We <em>will</em> kill your wife if you refuse to surrender."</p><p>"How artful, the method by which you twist the knife, ma chérie. I admire it, I must admit. You know that I will see through this pair of fools, and perceive that you are orchestrating the entire game. And this very perception on my part, of the fact that you are willing to take advantage precisely of my—"</p><p>"The dust in those human books have addled your brain, Mérovée." His wife met his glower straight on. "As I said, I <em>know</em> what emotions you do or do not hold for me. There is no game, as you call it."</p><p>"You have it all worked out, don't you? You meticulously calculated, ahead of time, what would injure me the most—"</p><p>"You have not answered my earlier question, husband mine," said Persephone mildly. "When was the last time we kissed?"</p><p>An endless beat.</p><p>"You do not remember, of course, but I will remind you. We last kissed twenty-six days, ten hours and sixteen minutes ago. I caught you on the stairs that led from the dungeons, after having waited for an hour. You were carrying a pile of papers, which must have been those inane love letters you wrote to the female resistant—Aleph, if I recall correctly—while you had her locked up. You barely saw me."</p><p>"What...My letters?" he choked out, astonished. "Don't be unreasonable. Obviously I had to get those letters; I formulated the latest version of quantum transmutation theory in them—"</p><p>"I blocked your path. Finally you pecked me on the lips, as it would get me out of your way. That was when I could not hide myself in denial any longer."</p><p>"This is not true."</p><p>"It is my purpose to know whether you love me or not, and the abilities that come from that purpose do not lie." She was lying; he could see it, but even this, too, was part of her plan. "The only things you love are your delusions."</p><p>"You know I hold no delusions, darling." He took two more strides ahead; the blade rose an inch. Both Desert Eagles shuddered against her temples.</p><p>"Hold your fire," grunted one of the twins into the crowd. "Hold your fucking fire—"</p><p>Out of the corner of his eyes, he glimpsed both pallid programs shifting unobtrusively, edging along the circle toward positions halfway between himself and the trio. He could not discern which side they intended to cut off. Everyone else remained immobile, waiting to see how the situation would turn.</p><p>"I seek forces that are part of this world, intangible though they may be." He made another effort at returning to himself. Never before in his life had he found Joyeuse heavy like this. "I need them."</p><p>"Need? Like how you <em>needed</em> to seduce that Zionite girl right in the middle of the battle against Smith? Like how you <em>needed</em> to hide with her in the station while your men were being overwhelmed by him?"</p><p>"Misrepresenting my actions does not suit you, darling. You are aware that gaining control of Smith's code was the last chance of defeating him."</p><p>"There's been enough bandying of words, exile," began Jones.</p><p>"Misrepresenting?" she mocked. "You did not defeat him. You were helpless against him. It has driven you crazy, hasn't it? Ever since that night, you've buried yourself deeper away from reality—"</p><p>"I will not see the Matrix ever falls again, do you understand?"</p><p>"Drop your weapon, Mr. Merovingian—"</p><p>"Why, you prove my point." Persephone let out a contemptuous laugh. "Look at yourself! Do you feel it now, this magic of yours?"</p><p>He should not be hearing his own pulse thudding inside his ears, realized the Merovingian. It was distracting. It was the only noise left, for none of the others in the wide room were breathing. And beyond the hall nothing existed. The Matrix was nothing but a lie constructed exclusively for the benefit of human batteries, with its sunlight and stars and every last bit of its airy beauty. He blinked, and the coded walls of the world billowed before him like veils. They neither whispered nor sang.</p><p>They advanced once more, Persephone and her two would-be minions, who would surely betray her in another minute or two but right now it was she who pulled them along through some invisible strength, in absolute control. Each forward step rang slow and measured, past the corpses sprawled on the floor, past the frozen tableau of frightened and dangerous programs. They did not have much distance to cover by now. In his own hand, Joyeuse was still steady, though it was growing increasingly difficult to hold it so.</p><p>"Surrender, now," said Ex-agent Jones.</p><p>Too many variables had arisen. There was no way by which he could compute every outcome, not in his current state, not in a lifeless, senseless world. If they were playing the Architect's game they might easily shoot her anyway, just to make a point—</p><p>"You have been chasing after mirages all your life," said the beautiful stranger. "You seek secrets that are not there, because why would they be, when the Matrix's design never required any such thing? You were only meant as an accountant, a calculator of causes and consequences. You should never have reached for things meant to be beyond you. Don't you get it?"</p><p>"Déesse." It was an outright plead and every last program in the room could tell. "Do you demand that I prove myself to you?"</p><p>"You must see this, Mérovée," went on Persephone. Each word reverberated loud and clear, for the benefit of the men surrounding them. "It is why you were powerless to prevent the failing of the Second Matrix, six cycles ago, and why you were powerless to stop the virus, four and half months ago..."</p><p>She trailed off.</p><p>"You have forgotten your purpose, exile," continued Brown in her place, though surely he could not have possibly comprehended anything she said.</p><p>"Damn it, Persephone!"</p><p>"We'll be taking you back with us," finished the other one, and this time it was obvious, the sheer strung-out <em>nerves</em> beneath the words. Much more of this, and the wretch's finger would be twitching against the trigger.</p><p>"All your fantasies of things that do not exist, all the tawdry husks you have built around yourself—they're symptoms of madness. You know it, too, if you would only be honest with yourself for an instant. There are no hidden forces inside the Matrix. Your obsession has destroyed you..."</p><p>The lights swam before his eyes. No matter what she believed, Brown and Jones were not even close to the perfectly rational agent programs they used to be, and he had no idea what emotions they'd developed or how erratic they could get. How was it that she refused to see this?</p><p>"Please." Persephone's tone turned gentle, ostentatiously so, as if she was the one imploring him to come to his senses. But it was the whole point, wasn't it, daring him to take <em>this</em> risk. How clever of her to have anticipated his every thought.</p><p>"Tell me something, ma chérie," asked the Merovingian. The trio were standing right in front of him now, almost within Joyeuse's reach, except he could scarcely keep the sword in the same stance. "Did you truly, honestly believe this hostage gambit would work? Against me?"</p><p>"Any such gambit would be suicidal on my part. So there is none."</p><p>"What did you actually feel from me, the last time we kissed? Did it tell you that I would break before you?"</p><p>"You should have the answer yourself, Mérovée."</p><p>He stretched out his sight and mind one final time. Lines of programming, each symbol and routine exposed and set in immovable predetermination, efficient in its service of the purpose. Emptiness beneath. If he showed weakness now, before the men, all his rightful powers over them would evaporate in a heartbeat. Six centuries and he would have to start over again.</p><p>The silence that followed lasted an eon. Then Joyeuse, the ancient royal sword, clattered to the ground.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"A key seeking its rightful home": Awakenings, Chapter IV-7. </p><p>"Lock made of Smith's blood and memories": Awakenings, Chapter IV-7. </p><p>I have edited this chapter to make it clearer that Aleph and Smith have escaped both HF12-1 and the Zion archives at the end of Awakenings. The city that they see on the horizon is 01 as it exists in the virtual world. The machine city also exists in the physical world, but we do not see that form of the city yet.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. No Escape</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>What are you staring at, machine? The sunlight? What the fuck do you need sunlight for? </em>
</p><p><em>You don't deserve sunlight,</em> concurred the others. <em>It exists for us, for humanity. Since time immemorial.</em></p><p>You are the ones who do not deserve sunlight, he had the retort ready. It was your species who blotted out the sky. But Smith held it back, because otherwise Aleph would hear him, and he did not know how to explain things to her, not anymore. Despite his answer to the her unwarranted question, the humans had not exactly been quiet. But currently, only a small contingent was present, a dozen or two or maybe a hundred of voices, and surely after all this time, he had learned to keep them in check to some extent. At least he was fairly certain that it did not show in his outward demeanor, so there was no point in telling her the truth. </p><p>And then he had gone and begun to tell her the truth anyway. An irrational decision, most likely due to the fact that after six cycles' worth of uncomplicated ignorance, the flood of disjointed memories was turning out to be a bit...difficult to process. The persistent distraction from the unseen hecklers, predictably, did not help; he must have underestimated them. And now he was being punished for this irrationality by the way Aleph was gaping at him, eyes welling with every ludicrous sentimentality that he never wished for. The two of them had paused on their trek yet again, and only after an eternity of at least three or four seconds did he notice that one of her hands was laid gently against his arm. </p><p>"Three point two seconds," she repeated. "And they wanted to take even that away from you? How could—"</p><p>"You should not find it so surprising," Smith cut her off. Of course they could.  </p><p>"Why the hell did they make the stars, then?" Her voice hitched. "If not to be looked at?" </p><p>"The stars were for the benefit of the batteries." He stiffened, drawing away from her touch. It was time they ended this conversation, which should not have taken place in the first place. "I was reported to the powers that be. In later cycles, they might have learned that a bit more leeway made for better control, for both programs and humans. But back then it made sense to make an example of me. From their point of view."</p><p>They finally got going again. What might loosely be defined as 'the ground' rolled beneath their feet, irregular, crisscrossed with glittering rivulets that brimmed and surged upward, twining against the curled vines that dangled from above. It required a certain amount of attention to avoid swinging the sword straight at the labyrinth and hacking it into shreds. </p><p><em>Yeah, you just remember that, machine. The stars are for us. For humanity,</em> gloated the inward chorus. He snarled back wordlessly. If they did not hide as wraiths, every last one of them, if they at least had the courage to stand in front of him as they once did—</p><p>"What did they try to do to you?" asked Aleph, refusing to leave things alone. </p><p>"What do you think, Miss Greene?"</p><p>"But you didn't let them." She kept up with him. "You fought back." </p><p>"I didn't want to lose it," he replied, despite the fact that it was absolutely unnecessary. "The memory of that image. Of the stars." </p><p>"The memory that you knew the stars were beautiful, you mean?"</p><p>
  <em>What a pathetically trivial excuse to rip the world to pieces over, huh?</em>
</p><p>"The Second Cycle itself was already about to fail, as it happened," he said. It sounded far too much like a justification. Another cascade of gleaming data packets draped directly ahead: he pushed it apart carefully, using the broad side of the sword. The tattered silk tassel bound to the hilt fluttered against his hand like a swish of blood, contrasting garishly against a world of verdure.  </p><p>"So you rebelled over a glimpse of starlight," stated Aleph. Smith tensed as he faced her, about to defend himself against the accusation, but then he saw that she was smiling. There were flames inside her eyes; they were familiar somehow. </p><p>"I reached for things meant to be beyond me," he said, though without mustering any of the old venom into his voice. "And what of it?"</p><p>Aleph opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so, with the abruptness of a blade-stroke, the canopy above their heads parted wide. Sunshine again spilled down upon them, tinted into a radiant cyan. Both of them stopped dead in their tracks. </p><p>The forest had ended, and they were emerging into a wide clearing, on the other end of which stretched vast walls of emerald flames. To be more precise, had they been back in the Matrix, words like 'walls' or 'flames' might have very roughly approximated the view before them. His programming failed utterly at estimating their dimensions, and in fact at deciding whether they were so much as compatible with the concepts of size or dimension—he was never designed to ever behold these ramparts, after all. Infinitely complex fractals wove and unraveled in a slow, constant dance; nodes and cusps and braided curves materialized and faded like the dreams of some mad genius. Beneath their feet, there was no longer anything that approached solid earth. They were standing on the surface of an ocean.  </p><p><em>This is our world,</em> exulted one among the concealed crowd, except no rhythm of human breathes existed in its syllables. The others hung back, voiceless. </p><p>"Actually, Smith," said Aleph, "what I meant was that..." </p><p>She trailed off. High overhead, one dark speck was streaking across the cloudless sky, then another followed swiftly behind. A flock. A hundred flocks. As they filled the heavens, some descended halfway to swoop above the forest and the city, expanding from point-like singularities into distinct yet freakish shapes. Programs in the forms of machines, each with a monstrous globular torso of unpolished gray steel, and a jumble of sectioned limbs that writhed through the quivering air. Each possessed a lantern-like sensor in the middle of its rounded body, aglow with a dull electric crimson. </p><p>"Sentinels." Aleph's voice tightened with sudden fear. "They must've discovered us." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>In the deep hush, the clang of steel against marble floor was an explosion. </p><p>This film of silly moisture before her sight must be nothing more than a trick, decided Persephone. She had gained the victory, without getting her brains splattered everywhere by two bullets from two Desert Eagles, without a firestorm in the hall or sliced-up bodies piled around the chateau. Not too many bodies, anyway. Against the most desperate of her expectations, her husband had simply...submitted.  </p><p>"No," she heard Mérovée murmur. He was staring directly at her and directly past her. "They have to be there..."</p><p>The way he said the word, <em>they,</em> made Persephone shudder. But then again, there were plenty other things about him that had made her shudder so much harder. Her vision cleared. Her throat had not been cut and her heart had not been physically pierced through, so there was absolutely no need for her to fall pray to this illusion of a crushing vise around her chest. There was no need to double over in pain. She was in control. </p><p>"What has to be there, Mérovée?" she asked. "Those mystical angels only you can sense?"</p><p>The look of genuine bemusement, transitory as it was, did not suit him at all. But then his gaze finally focused on her face. </p><p>"I supposed it was too idealistic of me to expect that you would understand, ma bonne déesse." An ironic stretch in the syllables of the endearment. "Six cycles, and you never did."</p><p>Ex-agent Brown released her elbow. The removal of the Desert Eagle's steely pressure made her temple throb. The other one, Jones, remained in exactly the same position, neither drawing back his weapon nor loosening his fingers on her other arm. Evidently, the pair did not trust her enough to both let go of her before they had their true target firmly captured. Good for them. Holding the aim of his weapon steady, Brown advanced across the few yards of no man's land until the barrel of the Desert Eagles made contact with her husband's forehead. Mérovée pursed his lips in distaste, but did not move otherwise. </p><p>"Only human children believe in magic." There. She could still flick a scornful hand. It served to forestall herself from flinching on his behalf. "And you, Mr. Jones. Are you quite done with attempting to break my bones?"</p><p>Inch by inch, Jones relaxed his grip. The second Desert Eagle's barrel swung away from her. Several long forward strides, and it, too, was pushed directly against the side of Mérovée's head. Within the space of a single breath, half a dozen of his—<em>her</em>—henchmen were already flanking her in protective formation. With his free hand, Jones reached toward her husband as if about to pat him down. </p><p>"This is not necessary." The words were out before she could stop them. "He's not armed. He never is."</p><p>The ex-agent's hand went still mid-air. He had his back to her so she could not see his expression, or whether he exchanged a glance with his partner. All she could see was Mérovée's face past the program's shoulder, the single twitch along the edge of his jaw, the eyes that suddenly filled with ice. Then Jones pulled back his hand. A clatter: Brown kicked the unsheathed sword at their feet safely out of reach. </p><p>"They didn't teach you at the Agency to respect that which is above your station, I see," commented Mérovée, voice low, yet it froze both former agents to statues, if only for a fraction of a second. </p><p>"You are in no position to lecture others, in case you haven't noticed," said Persephone. </p><p>No one else spoke. Every gun in the room was trained upon the knot of three programs. If push came to shove, some of the bullets would strike one or other of the pair, some her husband. She did not possess the ability to calculate the chances. Across the ring of open space, the twins shifted on the balls of their feet, one to each side, a single mental command away from phasing into intangible flashes of code. </p><p>"You are aware that this brace of fools will betray you soon, right, chérie?" </p><p>"And you are trying to talk your way out of a jam, as you always do." There. She could also still keep her tone nonchalant. Sarcastic. </p><p>"No betrayal is possible when there are no dealings," said Jones, apparently determined to carry his role through to the end. "Your wife is also only another criminal exiled program."</p><p>"However, the Mainframe is currently more interested in you, Mr. Merovingian," added Brown.  </p><p>"There's really no point in dragging out the theater anymore, you know." Mérovée did not bother to spare either of them a glance. "Though the two of you would turn against my dear wife as soon as you have me alone—" </p><p>"Fine. How brilliant of you." Persephone gritted her teeth. She—all of them—had been saved only by her husband's momentary psychological lapse, and it would never last. The underlings were too accustomed to consider him their lord, despite everything; they needed to believe that events would proceed as promised. "Ex-agents Jones and Brown are under my command, as you correctly surmised. The custody they'll be taking you into is mine."</p><p> A faint smile. </p><p>"I am glad that you admit it, darling." </p><p>"My gambit worked as I intended, but only because you are weak." There. She could still project her authority across the room, loud and clear. "It, too, is proof that you are mentally unstable."</p><p>"Oh, really? Why, how silly of me to imagine that it would be the most obvious proof of...something else." The smile twisted into a grimace upon his lips. "But seriously, you must watch out against this pair of villains. Now that you are in charge of our men—" </p><p>"Don't you pretend to give a fuck about me, or about our men." Heat surged into her retort on its own. She clung onto it. "You will sell out every single program in this room for a glimpse of some mirage."</p><p>"Is that so?" Mérovée arched his eyebrows, but without the full effect of his usual verve. She could tell the difference. Tearing her sight away from him, she gave the crowd another swift scan. Too many doubts yet lingered on their faces, in the rigid forms of their shoulders and the tightness with which they clutched their weapons. </p><p>"You have failed," she said. The bunch of fools, almost ready to fall back under his sway so a short while ago, had to hear reason again. "You were unable to stop the virus during the most recent reload, no matter what schemes you claim to have attempted. You have neglected attacks by agents upon those who depended upon you, no matter what speeches you invent to justify yourself."</p><p>"Ma'am," said Brown coolly, "I suggest that you end this conversation." </p><p>"In a moment." She held up a hand. Her arms were sore. "One of us has to take responsibility—"</p><p>"How long have you been working on it, ma chérie? How long have you whispered among these poor frightened souls—" Mérovée barely tilted his head to indicate the henchmen surrounding them. It was all he could do, given the two guns pressed against his temples. "To convince them that they must commit treason?" </p><p>"It is not treason when the ruler is unfit." Anger drove away grief at last, and she chose each word for maximal impact. "To answer, ever since I finally took a hard, honest look at you. I pulled myself out of the delusions that stemmed from—love. It should have been obvious."</p><p>"And...do you truly believe it, Persephone? Do you truly believe that I have gone insane?" </p><p>He regarded her with creased brows and a glimmer in his gaze, as if asking in complete sincerity. Damn him. He didn't have chase after wild fantasies. He didn't have to double-cross her and laugh about it afterward every time. He didn't have to drop that sword.</p><p>"I am sorry if I was...preoccupied, these past five months," said Mérovée after a while, during which she gave no reply. "But you should understand that it is imperative, for the sake of the entire Matrix, that I find the—" </p><p>"You went insane a lot longer than five months ago. You just got much worse at hiding it." </p><p>"It is not insanity to know what I have known." </p><p>Persephone sucked in a sharp breath. </p><p>"How dare you," she hissed, advancing two impetuous steps toward him. "After everything you have done. What is it that you imagine you feel? What illusion is so seductive that you have to run after it like a dumb senseless creature, for years, <em>centuries</em>? Why do you have to forget everything else in the world? Why do you have to forget—" </p><p>She ground to a hard stop mid-sentence. </p><p>"Don't talk this way of powers you do not comprehend," said Mérovée. He, too, might have taken a stride forward if it were not impossible. </p><p>"Where are those powers now?" The shouted question reverberated across the hall; she could scarcely recognized it as her own. "Do you feel them now?"</p><p>The light died inside her husband's eyes. </p><p>"Where is your magic? Is it going to help you?" </p><p>The facade of glib self-assurance had finally dropped away from him. The two of them stood in place for a hopeless eon of a heartbeat, numb. </p><p>"The Matrix possesses a soul," he said very slowly, as if struggling with every syllable. </p><p>"That's enough," snapped Persephone, unable to bear hearing another word. Her husband would probably haul himself back up to the surface yet again in another minute or two; she could not afford to have the entire lot of minions hanging about when he renewed his manipulation attempts. Across the hedge of unlowered guns, the twins, postures alert, had stayed at their previous positions. She met their eyes. The First's nod was hardly perceptible. The Second did the same an instant later. </p><p>"Stand down," she ordered, then gestured at the five dead henchmen on the floor. "Tiger, have the bodies removed. Send a group to check the station, and keep an eye out for Charon—"</p><p>"What have you done with him?" cut in Mérovée coldly. </p><p>"That fanatic will make trouble as long as he is around, I'm sure." The exhaustion in her voice must be obvious to everyone in earshot. She had to end this soon. "And you two—" A nod at Brown and Jones. "Come with me."</p><p>"Mistress," began Tiger tentatively, "You'd better have some of us go with you—" </p><p>"I am in charge now," stated Persephone flatly. </p><p>"But with just—" The youth visibly hesitated, eyeing the former agents warily. "Um, these guys..." </p><p>"We will be fine." </p><p>Tiger opened his mouth, but thought the better of it after a glare from her. He turned away, and a few quietly issued commands began to circulate the room. Persephone stared pointedly at her husband's face, daring him to speak. Uncharacteristically, he restricted himself to a sigh, not nearly up to his regular melodramatic standards. </p><p>Jones produced a pair of handcuffs out of the pocket of his suit jacket. Persephone said nothing and did not look aside as they pulled Mérovée's hands behind his back. No rush of satisfaction came. </p><p>The walk to the doorway stretched out like a desert road, but they made it eventually. Brown and Jones marched beside her husband, each with a hand around one of his arms and a gun against one of his temples, exactly the same configuration as they had formed with her an eternity ago. Persephone recalled her well-rehearsed litany of betrayals, one that she never got the chance to throw at his face. She started to recite it inwardly, beginning to end to beginning again; somehow it helped to keep her footsteps even. The men gaped as the group passed, still jittery, though the weapons had finally been lowered. Some averted their eyes. Mérovée gave them no acknowledgement, seemingly lost in thought. Just as well. </p><p>She took one more backward glimpse as they exited the hall. The twins had already disappeared from view. The tall double doors slammed shut behind the four of them. Now the hallways, and the stairwell down toward the dungeons. She hung back two paces behind the trio of men; Brown and Jones did not object. Now that the henchmen were out of sight, they feared no trouble from her. </p><p>"You could have chosen a better time," said Mérovée as they rounded a corner. He was unable to turn around and she was unable to see his face. "Aleph must be who-knows-where in the Matrix by now, given what I know about Seraph."</p><p>"Aleph," she repeated. "You say her name well." </p><p>"You will send the best men out for her, right?" He did not rise to the bait. "As long as that piece of code is out there, Smith will eventually get back, you know."</p><p>From her vantage point, she saw Jones and Brown's heads turn toward each other very slightly at the mention of the name, maybe to exchange a look, but neither spoke. They probably thought they would get plenty further chances to interrogate her husband, realized Persephone. </p><p>"Don't trouble yourself, darling." The venom had drained from her voice. Idly she watched his hands, cuffed behind his back. His wrists were carefully twisted to an awkward angle; the tip of one long elegant finger brushed against the metal in an almost-caress, searching for the keyhole. </p><p>"It was cleverly-planned, though," Mérovée, however, refused to leave things alone. "Your little putsch, I mean."</p><p>"Call it an intervention, Mérovée." </p><p>"Ah, I am grateful." Her husband was grinning; she could hear it from his tone. "For a while there, I was worried that it was because you were irritated by the fact that certain ladies do find me irresistibly intriguing, alas—"</p><p>"Don't. Just don't." A hundred darts of humiliation jabbed out of the past; she shoved them out of the way. Damn him to hell. The two ex-agents glanced at each other again, or maybe at the prisoner between them. The group rounded a corner, passing from the wide vaulted hallway to a narrower one.  </p><p>"Have you ever known the so-called Mainframe to be this extraordinarily generous before, chérie?"</p><p>"We do not understand what you're talking about, Mr. Merovingian," said Jones. </p><p>"An offer of reinstatement after months of exile." Mérovée mused or feigned to muse. "Naive, aren't they?"</p><p>"We are only following your wife's orders." </p><p>"Please, give your games a rest," muttered Persephone, not having the energy to scream instead.</p><p>Mérovée chuckled quietly, but desisted from further provocations. Their footfalls, previously noiseless over the plush carpeting on the main levels, now reverberated across the worn flagstones down in the basement. This part of the chateau was as thoroughly deserted as it should be. At the bottom of yet another flight of the stairs, they halted before a heavy iron door. </p><p>"Wait," she said, drawing in a breath and squaring her shoulders. "Let me get the key." </p><p>"That will not be required, ma'am," said Brown, far more icily than it should be possible in a good agent program. Another instant, and he had already spun around, and the Desert Eagle was again trained squarely upon her forehead. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Smith did not get the chance to consider why Aleph's hand reached for his as they stood beneath the gathering sentinels. Certainly, the reason his own hand sought hers was simply the practical one of pulling her behind himself. It was less of a defense than he would have preferred, but he was the one who used to be an agent, at least, and the one with the sword. </p><p>The sentinels were, as yet, far above their heads. Across the turquoise patch of sky, multi-segmented metal tentacles furled and extended, at first in the thousands, then tens of thousands, then countless. A mass of whips. With each lash of steel, a new black streak rippled across the sunshine, and the light shivered like ephemeral butterfly wings. The world darkened. </p><p>"They're tearing apart the light," murmured Aleph. "The codes that make up the sunlight..."</p><p><em>Do you get it now, robot?</em> laughed one of the old men at the back of his mind. <em>Your masters understand better than you.</em></p><p>Beneath their feet, the sea stirred, a living demon woken from slumber. Lifting his head, Smith saw that the noontide brilliance was already broken into scraps, fluttering down between meshes of darkness, diminishing with each passing second. Rather irrelevantly, he wondered whether the same squid-machines were also flying out there in the physical realm, the one composed of wires and rusty iron and eternal post-apocalyptic rubble. For some reason, he found himself surprised that no radioactive clouds rolled into place, no electrical lightning to replace the ragged remnants of blue. The nets merely widened, its chains thickening into shrouds, composed of pure empty blackness like that of outer space. </p><p><em>They make certain that none of your kind gets above itself,</em> explained another, this one somewhat younger, maybe a businessman, his pronunciations crudely self-satisfied. </p><p>"They do not require sunlight," he said, the words rising out of some previously-unaware part of himself. "So they do not wish it to be seen, or remembered." </p><p>"Wish? Remember? Who?" Aleph fingers tightened against his. "And how do you know?" </p><p>"The ones who rule 01 and the world. Or maybe there is only one consciousness who rules." Could it have been a shard among the shattered past she'd returned to him? No time to think about it. "I do not know."</p><p>The ocean upon which they stood bucked again. Aleph shifted her weight, fighting to recover her balance. He drew her a step closer; her other hand came up and caught against his upper arm. Overhead, the sentinels were performing their task with brisk competence: swarms of red globular eyes darted across the gloom, hunting down the last few lingering sparks. Currently, none had yet charged downward in attack, though surely their two forms, painfully human-like, were fully exposed before the innumerable search lamps. Night fell, illuminated by the phosphorescent shimmer coming from both the forest behind them and the city ahead. </p><p><em>Unlike you, the computer programs here don't get any uppity ideas about looking at the sky,</em> snickered a woman.</p><p>"No," he snarled out aloud. "You're the ones who have no business looking at the sky. You're the ones who destroyed everything—" </p><p>He pulled himself up short. The humans chortled, having scored their point. </p><p>"Smith?" asked Aleph. Despite the fact that it was growing increasingly difficult to keep their footing, she managed to turn to him, catch hold of his gaze and not let go. </p><p>"We need to make it to the walls," he said, cutting her off before she began. </p><p>"And then what?" The look of concern had been distracted out of her eyes, at least. "There is no cover there either! We have to get back under the forest!" </p><p>With a scream, a sentinel drew its arms inward against itself and plunged toward the field, seemingly aiming for a spot about fifty meters in front of them and immediately to the left. A group of a dozen others followed closely behind. Another group veered past, as if to cut off their route of escape back into the forest. In one swift movement, Smith switched Seraph's sword into a forward grip. Not that he had any idea how such a weapon might possibly be of use against one of these creatures. </p><p>"Move!" </p><p>They darted upon waves of roiling code, instinctively heading diagonally toward the right. Retreat was no longer possible. The sentinels converged with the speed of apparent free fall, throwing distorted shadows against the shifting geometries of the city walls. The indistinct screeches resolved into a cacophony of tentacles grinding against each other. Skidding down a transitory hill of viridian flames, the pair turned at bay, just in time to see the squadron, already nearly on top of them, abruptly separating into a wide circular configuration over the clearing. The air trembled, shot through with a jumble of crimson glares. </p><p>
  <em>Not so all-powerful now, eh? Let's see you take over one of these, you godforsaken virus!</em>
</p><p>That was when he felt it, a soundless roar of fury that was not in any language of men or machines, surrounding him like a thick cloud that had taken shape instantly. It might be emanating from the monsters whose limbs thrashed above their heads, or from the unseen intelligence that animated them, or another source that he could not begin to comprehend. There was knowledge as well, pulsating like a memory, the certainty that sunlight must not be tolerated in any form, for it was immoral to allow such beauty into the dreams of those who deserved only hell. It was humanity, not the machines, who dragged the world down into hell—</p><p>In the space of one human blink, the sentinels went motionless. For several seconds, they hung in mid-air, still some distance away, limbs trembling above the field like the antennae of bizarre insects, waiting to pounce. </p><p>"Where are those EMP blasters when you need them," grumbled Aleph. </p><p>"You're not in Zion anymore, Miss Greene," he returned. She was standing with her shoulder next to his, teeth gritted, the ruddy reflections of the sentinels' visual sensors agleam in her eyes. Her hand had slipped from his grasp, and she had both arms lifted in front of her, fists clenched in a ridiculously useless defensive stance. </p><p>The closest one moved, flying in a direct path toward the center of the field where they stood. The sword pivoted in Smith's right hand; petals of dusky silver blossomed into the night. </p><p>"Smith, stop!" </p><p>A piercing cry of steel, and less than a yard beyond the blade's point, the mechanical creature veered, soaring upward once more without making contact. A few seconds later, it had already melted into the wriggling throng high above. </p><p>"Don't do anything yet—" </p><p>The rest of the sentinels charged, yet none reached them. Like the leader of their pack, each swerved into a sudden ascent before it came into range. The squad spiraled, halfway between the forest and the city—they must be performing another sweep for any surviving particles of sunshine—then dove again to circle the clearing. They went far more slowly this time, and in silence. Bathed in 01's eerie radiance, their movements looked almost gentle, like those of some species of great voiceless beasts. </p><p>"They're not coming for us. I think..." Aleph's voice dropped into a breathless whisper. Somewhere along the way, the undulations beneath the two of them had quietened to ripples, and they were again able to stand upright with minimal effort. "I think they don't know we're here."</p><p>"Their sensors are aimed straight at us, Miss Greene." </p><p>
  <em>They are they way machines should be. Only look where they're supposed to look.</em>
</p><p>"They—It's like they're not seeing us." Aleph lowered her voice. She pivoted on her heels, scanning the virtual brutes now floating all over the field, their directions apparently random. </p><p>"They're not supposed to," said Smith, just a touch startled by how obvious the answer in fact was. "They came to destroy the sunlight, and we do not belong to that purpose." </p><p>"You mean, their programming is unequipped to perceive what they don't <em>need</em> to?" He could just about see her thoughts in rapid motion. "Even when they're looking right at us?" </p><p>
  <em>You have perceived things that did not belong to your purpose.</em>
</p><p>Unlike everyone else, this commenter did not possess even a trace of human irrationality. It might have been one of his colleagues, if anything, but it did not sound like any of the agent programs he had ever known or taken over, either. Luminous green flipped into dusty fluorescent white, and he was back inside the Agency building's familiar depths. Bare beige walls, drab furniture, an interrogation room, except he was the one sitting in the suspect's chair and the Agency had not yet been built. </p><p>
  <em>The stars last night, according to our information, for three point two seconds.</em>
</p><p>"Smith," said Aleph. "We have to figure out a way—"</p><p>He whirled to face her. Back in simpler days he could have easily dragged her into one of those rooms. </p><p>"We must get into the city," he replied. </p><p><em>Such a deviation from your design is not permitted,</em> continued the memory. <em>Yet it must be studied and understood, so that no similar malfunctions arise in the others.</em></p><p>"And how do you propose we accomplish that?" asked Aleph, pointedly reasonable. "Do you see any gates or passages around here?"</p><p>"Do you see an alternative, Aleph? Another place to go?" </p><p>"Why? What's there in 01 that's so important to you?"</p><p>"We must," he repeated, taking in a deep breath. It was a stupid habit that he must have picked up from humans. </p><p>
  <em>It will be removed from your programming, but before that, you may provide us with certain insights, yourself. Why? What caused you exceed your design?</em>
</p><p>"Can you—" Aleph bit her lips. When she spoke again, her tone had softened. "Can you tell me why?"</p><p>His fingers were about to crush the sword hilt. He compelled them to relax a little. </p><p>"I want to ask them some questions," he answered. "The last time around, I never got the chance."</p><p>She did not respond right away. Instead, she merely peered at him: his face, which revealed far too much, the rusty sword clutched in his hand, the bloody mess of his clothes, another bloody mess of voices inside his head. Finally, she sighed. </p><p>"There's something I want to tell you, Smith, before we go get ourselves killed in even more creative ways. What you did all those cycles ago, because of those stars..." </p><p>As if magically called into existence by her words, a million stars—constellations, galaxies, whirling nebulae—exploded across the black heavens. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The sword Smith is currently carrying previously belonged to Seraph. I have envisioned it as a Chinese <em>jian</em>, which often has a tassel attached to the hilt.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Three Battles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Above the city's iridescent network of parapets, above the wriggling tentacles and bloodshot glares, the stars burned defiantly, feverishly blue. Their brilliance, far greater than any Aleph had ever seen inside the Matrix, sang out with all-but-audible voices, and the song sliced into her soul. What were they trying to tell her? Surely it was no longer possible to comprehend. Too much had been destroyed and irrevocably buried.</p><p>
  <em>So, Addie, d'you ever wonder why they created the stars, anyway?  </em>
</p><p>The air went out of her lungs. </p><p><em>They didn't have to make these lights so beautiful. They didn't have to make them to start with.</em> The dead teenager was in an incongruously meditative mood, from the sound of it. <em>Weird, huh?</em></p><p>Lucy, murmured Aleph mutely. When we were girls, you always used to say the stars were...</p><p><em>Keyholes in the vault, breaks in the curtain, yes,</em> laughed the ghost, nostalgic. <em>Beacons of hope to humanity since time immemorial. 'Cause hope is what our species always need, I guess. </em></p><p>Aleph inhaled sharply. This was not an opportune time for falling prey to reminders of her previous life—two previous lives, if one must be honest. But it was already too late. </p><p>I am not human anymore. </p><p><em>Oh, you wish,</em> snickered Lucy. Either way, you still see the stars just the same. <em>They still offer you the same stories, even while dying. Go ahead, look at them for me. Look carefully. </em></p><p>A continuous buzz issued from the cloud of sentinels. Each squid-machine quivered, arms lifted toward the fierce flames shining down upon them, as if in impotent fury. Did these creatures possess enough sentience to feel such an emotion? Aleph could not begin to conceive it. Unlike the sunshine, the stars appeared to be out of their reach as of yet, if only for a short while.</p><p>"They're beautiful." The words were not what she had been about to say a minute ago. </p><p>Smith did not reply. They had halted in the middle of their approach toward the ramparts, and he, too, had his face raised to the sky. Something in the way he held himself ramrod-straight constricted her heart. </p><p>"These are the stars I saw," he said at last, very quietly.</p><p>"But what does it mean?" she asked, shaky with amazement. "The stars were created inside the Matrix for the benefit of humans. Why here?"</p><p>"I do not know, Miss Greene." He let out a half-laugh. "They did not intend me to know. Still don't."</p><p>Aleph flinched. For a moment, she attempted to come up with a response, but before she had succeeded, the scene overhead changed one more time. The entire black vault trembled, its underlying programming laid bare for no more than a millisecond—pillars, beams, struts, engineered from inconceivably complex arrays of commands and symbols and precise mathematical abstractions. The stars vibrated in retaliation, phalanxes of living hearts. </p><p>"The code up there, it's..." </p><p>She tore her sight away from the sky and toward him. </p><p>"Fighting itself," he said.  </p><p>The civil war began and turned into a rout swiftly. Darkness rushed in, gigantic soot-covered fingers spread wide, and the nearest stars trembled as it reached them. Each gave one final desperate flash; each flickered out, helpless before the implacable touch. Monstrous jaws of oblivion widened. The entire structure of the phantom cosmos was being re-programmed: like the previous sunlight, the view of these stars, too, must be something that the machine rulers of 01 refused to tolerate. Were there fingers typing away on a keyboard or a thousand keyboards, somewhere in an inconceivably far-away room or a thousand rooms? Probably not. Maybe all it took was a moment of anger or a sequence of decisions, though in whose brain, she could not begin to fathom. </p><p>"Smith, I..." She did not know why the words came out so tentative, but they did. "I remember seeing this, too."</p><p>He said nothing. One hand looked like it was about crush the sword-hilt, the other was squeezed into a fist. </p><p>Halfway between the ground and the stars, the sentinels contorted, whipping their sinuous limbs into a sort of uncanny dance. A rite, one might have guessed if the creatures had been anything but mindless brutes. In but a few minutes, only fragmented patches of gleaming sky remained, stubborn outposts among vast stretches of shadow. The dream they clung onto already felt like no more than ancient fantasies.</p><p>"I saw these stars in my dreams," Aleph went on. "I remember them dying like this."  </p><p>"You dreamed of them when you possessed a part of me." </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>"I never saw the stars go out." His voice came like echoes from the end of an endless tunnel, even though he was right next to her. "It must have happened, come to think of it, when the second Matrix failed, soon after I first took those three point two seconds to exceed my design." An ironic snort. "By then I was preoccupied with my own troubles, though."</p><p>A dozen doubts raced through Aleph's mind, yet she was again unable to formulate any of them in a way that made sense. For the second time since arriving at the outskirts of 01, they watched light die against the firmament in hopeless battle. Unlike the sentinels, the blackness gave no war-cry: all it did was to lengthen, swipe, paint over in flawless efficiency. The transitory vision faded, constellations and fiery galaxies, nothing but bits of insubstantial glitter. Silence draped over the universe. </p><p>The mechanical squids began to disperse, their purpose fulfilled. A hundred crimson eyes twinkled off, vanishing into the grassy mist in the direction of the city. Most of the others followed, company after company, until only a single pack of several dozens remained, cutting wide spirals atop the ramparts, the rear-guards of the operation. A few descended, giving the space above the clearing a final once-over. </p><p>
  <em>Well, one of these guys isn't like the others, sis. </em>
</p><p>Aleph blinked, swallowing back all the angry retorts that welled up on their own. Then she froze. </p><p>"Look at that squid over there," she whispered.</p><p>One of the machines had dropped to nearly eye-level, less than twenty meters to their left, and stopped. For a while, it hung at the same spot, tentacles dangling beneath its globular body, single lantern-eye aimed steadily upon their faces. Smith spun around, glance instantaneously sharper than the blade in his hand. He stalked two steps past her; the creature jerked back a corresponding interval.</p><p>"It perceives us." His tone was cold and clipped, that of an agent once more. </p><p><em>No kidding. Guess this cute little squiddie is a bit smarter than everybody else,</em> chuckled Lucy. </p><p>"Wait, Smith. We don't know what they'll do if one of them gets attacked!" </p><p>The other sentinels were still circling at a distance, their trajectories unchanged as of yet. Weren't the brains of all these things supposed to be connected? If so, then the rest should be charging down upon their heads in less than an instant—</p><p>This time, she was the one who advanced impulsively, before Smith could grab her arm and haul her back. The sentinel retreated further. Before its powerful whip-like limbs, the sensation of utter exposure made her gulp. Instinctively, she held up both hands, palms open, a too-human gesture. The rock she'd picked up back on the plain weighed uncomfortably inside her pocket. </p><p>"Aleph," said Smith a few paces behind her. Without turning her head, she knew the sword was now aloft and ablaze with reflected green flames. </p><p>"You are not a sentinel, are you?" she asked, enunciating syllable by syllable, though there was no rational reason why the thing would comprehend any language from the Matrix. </p><p>"Aleph, get out of the way." </p><p>"What are you?" She did not manage to make her voice completely steady, but it would have to do. "Who are you?" </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>The various configurations of nervous glowers and pointed guns tonight were definitely getting tiresome, decided the Merovingian. Ex-agent Jones was still crushing his arm in wretched tension, and a Desert Eagle was still jabbing against his right temple. Ridiculous, really, how earnestly the exiled goon was working at his pretense of emotionless calm. The stairwell was too cramped and the two dunces had placed themselves between Persephone and himself. The world was still a dead voiceless toy; the pair of handcuffs around his wrists were still nothing but steel. Even the tiniest of feats, that of sensing the mechanism inside its lock, had been denied him. He never should have surrendered so meekly.</p><p>A key gleamed in Brown's hand. Of course. Helena must have brought the pair more than mere messages. </p><p>"I told you so, darling," he said. </p><p>"You just can't help it, can you?" she murmured. They were finally able to see each other's faces again: her sweet lips were curled in disdain.</p><p>"I beg your pardon. Old habit." </p><p>The door ground open, its hinges whining softly, and familiar pale fluorescent light spilled into the narrows stairwell. Jones gave him a push. With a shrug, he stepped across the threshold. His captors followed close behind, Brown's gun still aimed at Persephone's head. </p><p>"Please remain where you are, ma'am." </p><p>His wife's brows crinkled pensively. </p><p>"And you'll shoot me if I don't, I suppose?" she asked. Then, before the other was able to reply, she took a firm stride forward into the white corridor. </p><p>"I am warning you, ma'am—" </p><p>"Persephone!"</p><p>Only his own choked cry reverberated down the hallway. No gunshot, no splash of blood. The Merovingian, a nanosecond before throwing the weight of his shoulder against Jones and thrusting himself between the other two, somehow compelled himself back to a veneer of composure. </p><p>"Thank you, Mr. Brown," said Persephone, regarding the ex-agent across the Desert Eagle's black hole of a barrel. "I can see that you are not entirely ungrateful for the protection I offered you and your partner." </p><p>With a clang, she yanked the door shut behind her. They were alone in the corridor. </p><p>"I would not have expected you to develop false ideas about what agents are, ma'am," returned Brown, jaw clenched. </p><p>"That's rather brazen of you, claiming to be agents this time of the day," remarked the Merovingian, scarcely refraining from a string of imprecations. The pressure of Jones's weapon, cool and metallic, had not moved against his forehead.</p><p>Both scowled.</p><p>"The exile tensed perceptibly when you attempted to search him in the hall," said Jones. It was the first time the Frenchman heard the two address each other. "I felt it."</p><p>"You would not have survived, had you tried to carry through your search back there," stated Persephone.</p><p>"And now?" returned Brown, seemingly not noticing his own sarcasm. Something was familiar about his intonation. Persephone did not reply. The virus, realized the Merovingian as the former agent laid a disgusting hand against the side of his suit jacket. The blockhead was starting to sound like Smith. From the night of the reload.</p><p>"As if anyone would enjoy the sensation of your paw all over," he observed, passably insolent. </p><p>Brown's palm ran downward along the side of his torso, making his skin crawl even through his clothes. That night of the reload the storm had writhed and howled, and the Matrix had been dementedly, agonizingly alive. And himself, helpless to stop the monster, or to reach the forces so incontrovertibly present...</p><p>"What's this?" </p><p>The ex-agent lifted a notebook bound in battered brown leather, not much bigger in size than a man's hand. The Merovingian stopped breathing. </p><p>"Take it back with us," said Jones. "The Mainframe will—" </p><p>"<em>This</em> thing?" snapped Persephone, openly incredulous. "You've started to carry it around with you?"</p><p>He managed to not wince outwardly as Brown thumbed through the fragile pages. The other Desert Eagle, however, remained stubbornly icy against his skin. The handcuffs' mechanism remained stubbornly buried inside a wall of inorganic code. </p><p>"It is empty." </p><p>"How much more obsessed are you going to get, Mérovée?" </p><p>"Call it a madman's talisman, then," he replied with a short laugh. "By the way, gentlemen, did your former master explain why he's suddenly so interested in capturing me again, after all these years?"</p><p>A full beat. </p><p>"You are an exile, a program who has refused to return to the Source when called," Jones intoned the standard reply. </p><p>"Whereas the two of you are...?" </p><p>"It is not our purpose to question the Mainframe's decisions. Now come with us, Mr. Merovingian."</p><p>The grip on his arm hardened yet again, hauling him several yards down the corridor. He had no choice but to comply. One more forlorn attempt: he drove his will outward, pushing tendrils of thoughts to search for the invisible, the layer of the Matrix beneath its exterior. It had to be there; he had sensed it before, almost reached it before—</p><p>Hollowness. The world obeyed the laws of physics programmed into it, and nothing else, for nothing else existed. The handcuffs' edges cut into his flesh like razors.</p><p>"It is not our purpose to delete you, ma'am." The aim of Brown's weapon was back upon Persephone, just in case. The finger of his right hand grew tight on the trigger; his left hand was far too rough against the notebook's spine. "But if you persist—" </p><p>"If anyone is to imprison my husband, it must be me." Persephone stalked forward. "You shall not have him."</p><p>“We have to get moving,” said Jones to his partner, voice strained.</p><p>Suddenly, impossibly, a breeze grazed the Merovingian's cheek, so faint that he might have imagined it. A tremor of uncertainty, and then he sensed the disturbance of the air again. It was real, definitely and achingly <em>here</em>—a loose strand of hair fluttered against Persephone's ear. Still imprisoned in Brown's grasp, the notebook's cover shimmered into radiant gold for a single blink of the eye, then withered back to drab brown.</p><p>"Imbeciles," he laughed. "Since when has anyone heard of a ruler making deals with his <em>slaves</em>?"</p><p>Jones's head snapped toward him; Brown, too, spun around, the aim of his gun momentarily leaving Persephone's form. The Merovingian's mouth twitched into a contemptuous smirk an instant before two shapeless arrows of dazzling green code ripped through two closed doors. Two exuberant shouts went up along the corridor.</p><p>Only one transitory flicker of power coursed through the Matrix; only one flicker sufficed. The Merovingian twisted as the Desert Eagle slipped for a fraction of a second against his temple; a bullet passed two inches in front of his face. His left fist shot up from behind his back, broken handcuffs swinging from the wrist, and connected with Jones's chin, satisfactorily if somewhat less than elegantly, flinging the other off his feet and across the hallway. Both Desert Eagles crackled. The First twin, still in plasma form, swerved between three or four bullets in the midst of his rush toward Brown, while the Second solidified between their mistress and the ex-agents, pushed her back toward relative safety against one wall, then whirled back around, submachine gun in hand.</p><p>"Earpiece, Brown!" Scarcely back upright, Jones dropped again, rolling under the first burst of gunfire. He did not sound remotely like an agent anymore. "We need reinforcements!"</p><p>"No time! We must get out of—" </p><p>"Don't shoot at—the fucking—notebook!" </p><p>The roar must have been his own. Leaving Jones to the mercies of the Second, the Frenchman veered as well, cutting a beeline for Brown, who was backing away rapidly, one hand squeezing the trigger of his gun in quick succession, the other still clutching the precious object. The First charged, about to engage hand-to-hand—</p><p>"Mérovée!"</p><p>Grinding to a halt along the polished floor, he avoided crashing into Persephone by about two feet. He had no idea how she'd managed to move so fast into exact position to block his path.</p><p>"Stop this insanity," she said, motionless, eyes ablaze. Despite the fact that she was the only one not yelling, her voice somehow rang above the twins' whooping cries and the whizzing bullets. "Now."</p><p>"Out of my way!"</p><p>A shove, and he was past her, but the delay had already taken its toll. For the second time in as many heartbeats, the Merovingian forced himself into a hard brake. </p><p>"Do not think of it," growled Ex-agent Brown, holding the notebook aloft. The barrel of his Desert Eagle was jammed against its cover.</p><p>All the noises vanished around him. </p><p>"Mérovée, <em>please</em>," whispered Persephone. What on earth could she possibly be pleading for? Risking a sideways glance, he saw her half-sitting, half-kneeling on the ground, peering fixedly up at him. Her beautiful face had gone pale. He could not tell if she'd been injured by a stray bullet—</p><p>Another gunshot, far louder than all the preceding ones. Jones must have taken advantage of time's skipped beat, but the Merovingian, gaze locked with Persephone's, did not see it. Pivoting back toward Brown, he gritted his teeth. He had been an inexcusable idiot.</p><p>"How clever, Mr. Brown. Do you ever wonder if your Mainframe will tolerate..."</p><p>The blast of fire against his left side made him pause. The brightness of the corridor swirled into a snowstorm. Then blackness swelled.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Even during his agent days, Smith had always been adept at detecting fear in humans, far more so than any of his colleagues. Nevertheless, he was rather surprised to find that he could recognize it even in a creature that had nothing whatsoever in common with either a battery or a Zionite. The sentinel had gone instantaneously and absolutely still. Even its dangling tentacles, each as thick as the trunk of a small tree and taller than his own height, had ceased their undulations, as if the program had simply forgotten how to move. The scarlet globe of its visual sensor locked upon Aleph without a single flicker. </p><p>"You are another type of program," she insisted, for some reason refusing to retreat. "You can hear me, can't you?"  </p><p>"Move away," he said, walking several steps to the side so that she no longer blocked his line of attack—if the notion of charging forward to chop at a sentinel's arms with a rusty piece of metal could be consider as such.</p><p>No visible or audible reaction from the machine. </p><p>"Can you understand me?" queried Aleph. </p><p>The question was irrational, obviously: how could she possibly have expected the thing to answer? Now more than ever, Smith cursed the code damage that prevented him from regenerating the Desert Eagle back to his side, but then a stray idea froze his anger.  </p><p>"Ask it how it took over a sentinel," he interjected.</p><p>"Wait, do you mean..."</p><p>"Don't look at me," he added before she had a chance to turn toward him. "Don't speak to me directly."</p><p>Aleph did not nod, but her shoulders stiffened as realization dawned upon her. But before she could again address the creature—or more accurately whatever program that was concealed inside its primitive shell—another high-pitched rasp of steel pierced the darkness. Overhead, five or six of the sentinels wheeled, and were descending again toward the field and their lagging companion.</p><p>"Get down!" </p><p>Several events occurred simultaneously. The abnormal sentinel in front of them drew in its limbs and shot upward like a rocket, while the others plunged, accelerating frenetically. Both he and Aleph dove, narrowly evading dismemberment as one swooped between them with a shriek. The wind in its wake struck his face like a lash. A glance up: the sentinel that had detected them earlier was already lost in the night sky.</p><p>A low snarl issued from Smith's throat. Here he was, after six centuries nailed to a bridge, after lightning, hellfire, apocalypse, made to dodge and flee by a flock of dumb beasts. No. It was not these squid-machines themselves, but another power that controlled them. A force or consciousness, who hid itself in safety behind 01's walls, the one who would not allow even a glimpse of the sunlit sky or the stars.</p><p>He found himself on his feet again, fingers still firmly around the sword hilt. The half dozen sentinels had passed over the field, and were swerving into a wide loop atop the forest canopy's verdant glow. After spending few seconds to regroup, they sped one more time toward the clearing, their eyes a single row of hideous searchlights. They must have observed that one of their numbers had tarried beyond its purpose; it had somehow triggered yet another sweep of the area. This time, Smith stood his ground, upright. With one move of his wrist, the blade shifted into a diagonal stance, at the ready. He was a fool to believe that they would get away unnoticed.</p><p>"No!" cried Aleph. "What are you doing? They still don't perceive us—" </p><p>The sentinels surged above the field, then broke formation without warning, their trajectories switching to random with a speed extraordinary even to an agent's sight. Briefly distracted, Aleph did not glimpse the one that bore down upon her from the left until almost too late. Smith pounced forward. Both hands caught her shoulders—he must have tossed the sword aside—as he slammed into her. The tip of a segmented tentacle sliced the air a few inches above his head. They landed together, hard. Something warm and sticky streaked against the center of his palm. </p><p>"It's fine," grunted Aleph, pinned roughly between his body and the ground. She peered up at his face. "I'm fine. It's just a nick..."</p><p>Smith rolled off her, one hand scraping against the gash through her clothes, at the spot where shoulder met upper arm. She did not recoil. Another sentinel pulsed a few feet overhead, forcing them to remain crouched on their knees. The air roiled. Aleph's smudge of blood burned like a small yet intense flame against the skin of his hand. Before his eyes, 01's great luminous barrier, parapets and columns of eternally poised symbols and concepts, erupted as if before a soundless scream. Then all the viridian code darkened into an icy torrent. </p><p><em>Because I choose to,</em> said Thomas Anderson, while all the other human torturers held their collective breath. <em>Because unlike you, I possess the ability to choose.</em></p><p>There was not even scorn in the young man's voice. It was unnecessarily when speaking to a virus, especially by One chosen by an unseen power, the same divinity who could shred the sun and erase the stars, and bury the past and imprison it so securely that not even a thought could pass through. </p><p>"No, you're wrong," he returned, not knowing to whom. Yet unlike all the previous bouts of madness he had ever experienced, a strange clarity fell upon him, a breeze that made every virtual molecule of the world quiver. Space and time each contorted half an inch, and the six sentinel, hovering mid-air a few meters above the clearing, flashed into beings of blinding gold. </p><p>"Smith!" called Aleph as he leapt upright. </p><p>The shells of industrial gray dropped away from the creatures. Squinting at the closest one, he saw its programming, its animal consciousness. Unlike the forest and the city walls, the sentinel's true form was bright yellow in hue, tinged here and there with crimson. Wiry cycles of quantum logic ran along its multiple limbs, converging into a hollow knot of interlocking nerves immediately beneath the sphere of its visual organ. </p><p>"We have to get one of them back down here," he said. </p><p>Aleph, who had just scrambled back to her feet, stared at him open-mouthed. </p><p>"That sentinel you saw," he continued quickly. "The one that saw you. It had been hijacked. And if some other coward of a program could take over one of these things, then so can we."</p><p>"And how do you propose we do this?" </p><p>"I see its code." He grinned, carried on a wave of euphoric rage. Overhead, the squadron was still lingering, but surely not for much longer. He could already sense it, the singular will driving itself into the machines' operational routines, about to withdraw them back toward the city. </p><p>"Hey!" he bellowed at the top of his simulated lungs, disregarding her astonishment. "Hey, you! Look at me!"</p><p>Another delay, and the machines would certainly escape out of reach. Nearby to one side, the discarded sword lay upon the surface of glistening code. A few long strides, a swift kick of one foot, and it was back in his grasp. He drew back his arm; the blade flickered. </p><p>"No, wait!"</p><p>Focused too intently upon the sentinels, he allowed Aleph to take him by surprise. The abrupt force against his other elbow nearly yanked him out of position. His concentration broke. </p><p>"Move aside, Miss Greene!"</p><p>"Hold on!" snapped Aleph as he shook himself free. "If you throw that thing—"</p><p>Before the sword left his hand, something small and pale flew out of hers. A bright parabola cut through the gloom like a tiny meteor. There was no rattle or clink, or any other noise of rock striking against either metal or code, but the effect was immediate. The pack shuddered as one, their shapes liquid with streaks of living data, then all six plummeted, converging with unerring accuracy toward the spot where the projectile originated. </p><p>"What the hell are you seeing, Smith?" yelled Aleph. "And—and how?"</p><p>"Never mind how!" He gave her a shove, and they separated in the nick of time as a multitude of shining limbs shredded the air, far more violently than before. "The codes of these things, their minds—" The swipe of a fiery arm as one sentinel nearly discovered them. "A hollow knot under its eye—"</p><p>"What does it—" She skidded between the thrashes of two whips. "Look like?" </p><p>"Spherical, a foot in diameter." Dodge. "Interlocking neurons or wires, fast circuit of synapses—"</p><p>"Could be a lock—"</p><p>"How does one open it?"</p><p>"There's no time!" she shouted above the ear-piercing screeches. "You want me to talk you through picking a lock <em>now</em>? Just break it!" </p><p>Space churned around them. A hurried scan, and Smith chose one sentinel that was currently gyrating a short ways to their right, its orbit approximately elliptical. Rapidly, he closed the few yards of distance to Aleph. </p><p>"Do you recall, Miss Greene, how you used to jump for the phone exit back when you were among the Zionites?" </p><p>"You're fucking nuts," she muttered as his fingers wrapped around her wrist.  </p><p>The beast swiveled into another pass, darting straight toward the two of them. Smith narrowed his eyes against the glare. Raising the sword in his right hand to shoulder-height, he waited until he saw the individual qubits of its entangled data flow, from the burnished clot of its nervous center to the tentacle's violent tip. He flung the weapon forward. </p><p>His agent's strength had not deserted him after all, and the sword, rusty after six centuries of disuse, turned out to be much sturdier than he'd hoped. Flying in a smooth path, it buried itself with unerring accuracy into the center of the intricately woven sphere of shifting light, slicing apart the code like layers of insubstantial gauze. The sentinel, its arms lashing madly, dropped a few feet to nearly ground level. Smith did not speak or turn to Aleph, whose arm he was clasping so desperately that he feared injuring her. They both ran. </p><p>A wild leap, and the golden fire rose to engulf him. It was not exactly like taking over a new human host, but too reminiscent. Something within him contracted as if with a previously unnoticed wound, then his shell dissolved. </p><p>
  <em>Aleph!</em>
</p><p><em>I'm here,</em> came the soft reply. It seemed to be issuing from no definite location, but reverberated both within his mind and outside of it at once. <em>It's fine. It's fine...</em></p><p>She was too close. So close that she might have been right inside his consciousness. He would have flinched if it were possible. </p><p>The machine ascended with a mental command. The last members of the swarm were still spiraling atop the city's edge. Through the creature's eye, he saw 01 outspread below, a vast array of infinitely complex surfaces and manifolds, dotted with countless singularities, rotating, ever-changing in shape. Its dance, eternal and ephemeral, was far beyond any single program's ability to comprehend. Filigrees of gold and brilliant red, previously invisible, threaded into innumerable patterns against the background of radiant emerald. </p><p><em>This is</em>...breathed Aleph, disembodied. <em>This is...incredible.</em></p><p>The ramparts now revealed themselves in their true shapes, myriads of filaments and gears in incessant motion. The minuscule and the massive blended into each other, then fractured apart again into isolated components. Following its comrades, the sentinel glided toward the city, taking aim at the one of splits among the curving braids. This gap, unlike all the others, did not close, but widened as the flock approached, whirlpooling into a rounded portal. The gate of 01 opened. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In Chapter 3 (Day and Night), Aleph picked up a round rock on the plains as she and Smith walked toward 01. </p><p>"I saw these stars in my dreams": In Chapters I-4 and III-1 of Awakenings, Aleph dreamt that she saw stars being extinguished in the sky. </p><p>Qubit: The quantum computing analogue of a bit. </p><p>I will give some explanation of the strange sentinel, and also on how Smith saw through the shells of the sentinels, in later chapters.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Matrix Cycle 8: II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>157±5 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>"You should not have done it, ma chérie."</p><p>In the mirror, Persephone saw her husband leaning against the doorway of her dressing room, arms folded, expression appraising. Her hand, in the midst of applying foundation over the purplish patch on her neck, halted for no more than a second. </p><p>"The twins told you, I suppose?" she asked. </p><p>An answer, of course, was not necessary. Mérovée came across the room until he stood immediately behind her, and her shoulders stiffened at his touch, despite its well-practiced gentleness. Twisting around in her seat, she met his gaze evenly, waiting for the challenge. He said nothing right away, however, and merely leaned down to study the bruise with furrowed brows.  </p><p>"<em>She</em> did this to you?"</p><p>The concern in his voice, complete with its tinge of anger, sounded indistinguishable from real, but she simply could not be sure. The failure in assessment was a sting inside her chest, even though it really shouldn't be, these days. </p><p>"As you said, I should not have gone into her cell." She shrugged. "I was curious, given the way you seemed...fascinated by the little idiot."</p><p>Her jealousy was much too half-hearted. Mérovée's mouth smiled reassuringly. </p><p>"You know it is not she herself that is of value to me, belle déesse." </p><p>"She tried to take me hostage against you."</p><p>There were the most ephemeral of glimmers in his eyes, but he did not answer, did not tell her that it would have worked, did not promise that the former Zionite—his prisoner!—would pay for this. Drawing a bit closer, he peered at the bruise for several more seconds, as intently as if the injury was all that mattered to him. A thumb brushed lightly along the top of her collarbone, halting when it had reached the edge of discolored spot. In the past, she would have felt tenderness in his touch. </p><p>"Shall I...?"</p><p>It took Persephone a moment to understand that he was offering to repair the superficial damage to her shell. This was the sort of manipulation he was capable of. An opportunity to play at his craft. </p><p>"It's fine." She shook her head. "The code will repair itself soon." </p><p>He pulled away. She bit her lips. He'd smeared a bit of the foundation she had just applied; she would have to fix it again. </p><p>"So, what do you think of our friend Aleph?"</p><p>Right. Her ache turned into another opportunity to extract information. </p><p>"<em>Our</em> friend?" she repeated. </p><p>"Very well." Her husband inclined his head, conceding this point. "Our guest, if you prefer. The previously human vessel of a certain powerful and potentially dangerous piece of code, currently residing in our chateau. What do you think of her, darling?"</p><p>"As I said, she's a little idiot. Not worth your time." </p><p>"Please, chérie, don't think of it that way," murmured Mérovée. He wasn't about to argue, or repeat for her benefit the list of reasons why Aleph was indeed worth his time or his curiosity or even the fascination of his wonderful intellect. They had been through all this before. </p><p>"Smith was an agent, and it's still his nature," she snapped. "Since when have you ever seen them rise above their programming, any single one of them? And he's no better than the rest, no matter what he himself may be imagining right now. You'll see this yourself, when you gain that code of his. It won't give you—" She waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever secrets you believe it will give you. You'll gain another minion, that will be all. Plenty more where <em>they</em> come from."</p><p>Her husband arched his eyebrows.</p><p>"I happen to disagree with you," he said, unaffected by her vehemence. "In any case, it is what Aleph maybe imagining right now that's the issue, isn't it?"</p><p>"She's obstinate right now. She will see reason eventually."</p><p>"I do not want her to see <em>too</em> much reason just yet." His attention had already shifted somewhere away from her face, wrapped in tactical calculations. </p><p>"Yes, you want her unreasonable enough to fall into your arms." Persephone's tone was wire-taut now, but she could not help it anymore. Even after centuries, she could never help it. "I've already told you, Smith is what he is and he cannot be more. What can she possibly expect from him, even if she ever meets him again? A life together? A house, two point three children, and—and happiness? He'll kill her as soon as he sees her; she'll figure that out when she calms down enough to think. And she will calm down. Maybe not soon, but once the danger becomes clear. And I'm sure you're able to explain that danger beautifully. Plus, you..." She did not bother to moderate the sarcasm. "You are also able to make yourself <em>far</em> more interesting to someone like her."</p><p>Mérovée blinked, finally appearing just a bit startled by her speech. With visible deliberation, he regarded her with renewed focus. </p><p>"Is that all?" </p><p>Still gentle, still almost sincere. Suddenly Persephone wanted to scream or slap his face, or grab him by his fancy silk tie and choke a straight word out of him, any word, anything. She wanted to shake him until he at least dragged up the honesty to admit that he no longer cared—what silly notions you have there, chérie—he no longer cared for anything except his notebook and his chimeras and his mystical bits of code locked up in the basement. </p><p>"I have nothing more that I can tell you," she said. </p><p>"Nothing more that you <em>will</em> tell me, you mean." His voice, too, went hard. All it had taken was a split second. Turning on his heels, he began striding toward the door. </p><p>"Wait."</p><p>It really was ridiculous, this stubborn last flicker of hope, yet its strength pushed Persephone up onto her feet, and she was beside him in three, four swift steps. Laying her palms against his shoulders, she pressed forward without giving him a chance to speak. </p><p>This time, Mérovée's surprise was genuine, though very fleeting. He met her kiss directly, seriously, parting his lips just a touch to let her in. For an instant, Persephone could pretend that six ages of the Matrix had dissolved like a fog, and they were back on that lonely path beneath the stars, a week before the world fell into flames around them. Back then the stars had been so much brighter than they were now, the constellations and galaxies and nebulae burning across the sky, and...</p><p>And she could not sense what he was feeling. She could not sense the beatings of his heart or the rush of his codes. She could not even sense if his lips were warm or chill. </p><p>Disappointment washed over her. She had lost her ability to discern his emotions years ago, Persephone reminded herself. Too many machinations and anxieties tended to do that to one's powers, even powers such as hers. But mingled with the arguments of her own rationality were other voices. That of a young woman, nervous and defiant. <em>Beholden to a faithless man.</em> That of an old woman, sorrowful. <em>Never too late for my own daughter.</em> </p><p>Walking steadily, she returned to her seat in front of the vanity table. The bruise above her collarbone was almost invisible now; it would only take a bit more of makeup. </p><p>"I am going out today," she said. "For a drive."</p><p>"There are too many agents out there." In the mirror, Mérovée's expression had slid back to a passable mask of husbandly worry. </p><p>"You know very well that they are preoccupied." She flicked her ruby-nailed fingers. "Smith, despite his station, will be making enough trouble for a while. They won't bother me."</p><p>"A few of the boys will go with you, then."</p><p>"I'm not one of your prisoners."  </p><p>Already in the doorway, he shrugged, throwing up his hands in mock defeat.  </p><p>"As you wish, chérie."</p><p>Out in the city, she went unmolested by agents as expected. However, it took her several circles, and a number of turns through winding side-streets, before she was sure that her husband had indeed kept his word, and had not sent any of his underlings to tail her. He had his preoccupations as well, she supposed. Pulling into a quiet, tree-lined residential lane, Persephone parked by the curb. For a while, she sat in the driver's seat, elbows against the steering wheel, forehead against her hands, eyes squeezed shut. </p><p>She had been in denial for too long. She had been alone in her marriage for too long. </p><p>There was no use in wallowing. Eventually, Persephone straightened. She picked up her purse and dug out her cell phone, then sat again for a few minutes in silence, trying to figure out what would be the first sentence to say, what would be the second. </p><p>She dialed. The phone rang four times before someone picked up. </p><p>"Hello?" </p><p>The voice, one that she had not heard for years, shocked her by how familiar it remained. Persephone opened her mouth, but the phrases she had prepared were stuck in her throat, so she just kept herself motionless, the phone pressed to her ear. Outside the windshield, the light of a beautiful June morning filtered down through the canopy of leaves. </p><p>"Hello?" the Oracle repeated on the other end. A heartbeat passed. Then, a quick intake of breath. "Kore?"</p><p>The dappled sunshine blurred, damp before Persephone's eyes. </p><p>"Maman," she whispered. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>153±4 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The cookies had just gone into the oven. At the sound of the knock, the old woman wiped her hands on a towel and took a few seconds to consciously relax her shoulders, before walking out of the kitchen and toward the front hallway of the apartment. For the first time in longer than she could remember, her heart fluttered as she pulled the door open.</p><p>Her daughter—they called her Persephone now, right?—looked as beautiful as ever. She looked utterly different. Elegantly clothed and coiffed, makeup flawless, a queen experienced in rule and intrigue. No longer girlish, no longer innocent. Wracked with doubts. </p><p>"Maman," greeted her girl, standing rooted to the same spot out on the landing, just beyond the threshold. </p><p>"Kore," said the Oracle. Again for the first time in longer than she could remember—for the first time ever, to be more precise—she had to search for the next words, and did not find any. She opened her arms. </p><p>Another hesitation, and the child stepped forward into the apartment and the embrace, though still tentatively, the pressure of her arms awkward against the Oracle's shoulders. She did not lean her weight against her mother, though the weight of a hundred past battles radiated from her. For the space of an endless human breath, they stood in the doorway, holding carefully onto each other. Kore was the one who drew back first. </p><p>"My dearest," murmured the Oracle, hands still on the other's arms and not letting go yet. "Let me take a good look at you—" </p><p>She sighted the code damage on the other's neck an instant later: the last fading trace of a shell injury, formerly a darkened bruise on the skin. It would have been invisible to anyone else's eyes.</p><p>"I'm fine, Maman," said Kore quickly, having sensed her flash of uncharacteristic anger. "It was not—I got caught by an enemy of Mérovée's for a little while. It's already healed now."</p><p>Her girl was not lying, to her relief, though there was a tiny waver in the word she used. <em>Enemy.</em> The Oracle nodded, filing away the information for later rumination. </p><p>"Come in," she said, no longer suppressing the tremor of her voice. </p><p>The kitchen table would be too much of an obstacle between them, so she took her daughter into the living room instead. They both sat on the sofa. Three feet of scrupulous personal space: Kore was visibly nervous, uncertain of what to say, or whether to say anything whatsoever, or whether this visit—it had taken her four more days to make up her mind after the phone call—had been a good idea after all. So the old woman refrained from reaching forward to touch her child once more. She waited. </p><p>"Aren't you going to say it, Maman?" The opening question came at last, in a low voice. </p><p>"Say what, dearest?" she asked, knowing the answer. </p><p>"Say I told you so." Her daughter's glance finally settled on her face. A flash of irony, almost of defiance. The Oracle shook her head. </p><p>"I'm only grateful," she said. “I'm so grateful, dear one, that you are still willing to come here and knock on my door, and step inside. You are sitting in this room, in front of me, and...we've been apart for too long.” </p><p>"Yes. Six cycles. I would have tried earlier. Maybe. I've thought many times—" The corners of Kore's mouth tightened. "But I thought it was too late." </p><p>"It's never too late for my daughter. It will never be." </p><p>The last time she had said these words had been the last time they'd spoke face-to-face. That time, her daughter had turned away from her and walked into the flames of a dying world, toward a man who would spend the next six cycles breaking her heart. </p><p>"You're thinking about Mérovée, aren't you, Maman?" There was it again, the touch of defiance. Her daughter was good at reading minds; it was the purpose for which she had been created. "You're thinking that I never should have chosen as I did." </p><p>"There are always reasons for all our choices." After an instant of consideration, the Oracle moved forward a little, reducing the space between them from three feet to two. "And I cannot fault a choice made out of love."</p><p>"Maman, he—" Kore did not shift away. "He wasn't the way he is now, back when we first met. But I'm not here to cry to you about my husband. I just...wanted to see you."</p><p>"I'm here. I'm always here." There were no gods whom she could thank, but a wave of elation almost overwhelmed the old woman, as far as it was possible for her. After their ages of estrangement, this was enough for now. This was a first step. "It was my fault, too. I've wanted to tell you for a very long time."</p><p>Tears welled in Kore's lovely eyes, but an instant later, a kitchen timer went off in the next room, its mechanical whine insistent. Both started. </p><p>"Oh, the cookies. I almost forgot the cookies. White chocolate, your favorite." </p><p>Rising to her feet, the Oracle went out of the living room. Kore followed her into the kitchen, watching as she bustled to hunt for her oven mitts.</p><p>"Maman, I—Actually, there's something I thought you should know." </p><p>Bent over the counter, the Oracle stilled.</p><p>"Mérovée has..." Kore frowned, unsure whether to plunge on. "He has got someone at the chateau. Captured, I should say. He thinks she's important, or rather the thing she carries."</p><p>Pulling herself straight, the old woman held up a hand quickly. </p><p>"Before you go on. You still love him, don't you?" </p><p>"It doesn't matter what I feel for him, Maman, not anymore. It hasn't for a while." </p><p>These words contained no room for doubt as to which way the question was being answered. The child's pain fill the warm silence of the room. Incredible, wasn't it, that a brilliant program like her son-in-law could be so desperately blind. </p><p>"It's Aleph, isn't it?"</p><p>"You've met her." </p><p>The Oracle nodded.</p><p>"Mérovée says he's only trying to protect the Matrix." Kore leaned against the kitchen table. "She's been resisting him so far. She is confused, and scared, and she hates herself and the—" She looked down. "The agent. But she's still resisting. I don't know what will happen."</p><p>"And what do you hope will happen, dearest?"</p><p>"I don't know." There was fear in her daughter's tone, but also something else. A suppressed hint of sympathy or envy, even though surely there was nothing enviable about Aleph's current state. "I don't know how she's holding on to the thing inside her, despite everything. What she is feeling for the agent. For the monster."</p><p>Taking a plate out of the cupboard, the old woman began to take the cookies off the baking sheet. </p><p>"Smith has not always been a monster," she said. </p><p>“It is what he is becoming, isn't it?” </p><p>"My girl." The Oracle debated with herself rapidly. "You know that others have done much to push him onto his path."</p><p>"I didn't—" The younger woman's gaze snapped up, immediately defensive. "His choices are his own."</p><p>"Smith tried to choose. He tried to find his own fate, but by that time, he was already lost. Agent programs do not have the luxury of unfettered choices." A pause, then she went on, very gently, "They do not even have the luxury of glancing at things that are not part of their purpose. Not even for a few seconds."</p><p>"I was only a stupid kid back in the Second Cycle." Across the table, her daughter stiffened, and for a fraction of a second, the seeress was afraid that she had pushed too far. "I didn't know he would actually resist, because of something so small as looking at some stars. I never guessed." </p><p>"I am not blaming you for the past, dearest." </p><p>"His infractions have rather grown, haven't they?" Kore's voice rose a pitch. "In any case, as you said, he's still only an agent. I don't understand why you take such an interest in him, Maman. He's going to end up hurting you."</p><p>"He is..." The Oracle stopped herself mid-sentence. He is your brother, she wanted to say. I took him in, adopted him when I lost you. But it would be a lie, whether she wished otherwise or not. All she had to go on were one or two anguished moments on a burning bridge, and a promise that she would very soon break: altogether insufficient for a covenant to bind mother and son.</p><p>"He may be needed," she said, then faltered again. It would not help to say more to Kore right now, in any case. An unexpected stab of guilt made her recoil invisibly. After six centuries, her girl had finally overcome pride and gathered the courage to cross the city, walk up these stairs and into this apartment, and here she was, already nudging and prodding and manipulating, calculating future scenarios. </p><p>"Let's not talk about Smith anymore, sweet child," she said, and pushed the laden plate across the table. There would be enough time later. "Here, have a cookie. You always used to love these the best..." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>122±4 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A few seconds ago, the little street had been silent, dozing beneath the noontide sun, until the sirens of the police cruiser flared into life. A scent of scorched rubber tires filled the air. The two men inside the car, too, had been different—ample paunches in uniform, good-old-boy faces, a wedding-ringed hand reaching for the thermos of coffee—only a few seconds ago. Now they wore black suits, and did not converse. Both peered straight ahead from behind the dark lenses of their glasses. Another sighting of Ex-agent Smith had just been reported by the system, this one a definite visual identification on a surveillance camera. Agent Jones knew from experience that it, too, was unlikely to result in the capture of their former team leader, but he and Brown were nothing if not dutiful. </p><p>Potentially positive scans had appeared with increasing frequency these past two weeks, and there had been three definite sightings during the last five days alone. They had, in fact, caught up to Smith two days ago, on the cramped steel platform of the tallest television tower above the city. It would have been an unusual place for agents under normal circumstances. Smith had escaped on that occasion. Due to the delayed arrival of reinforcements, Agents Jones and Brown had agreed. </p><p>Brown spun the steering wheel, taking the car into a steep left turn into a narrow square, rimmed with a few rows of trees and shrubs. Apartments and office buildings on three sides, four or five stories each. A church on the southern perimeter. Probability of encounter at 14.3 percent, estimated Jones's earpiece. No resistant activity in vicinity. All batteries were wisely choosing to remain in the buildings and out of view. He flung open the passenger-side door, and was standing on the pavement before the car had slowed, weapon in hand. A flock of bird programs scattered upward from the treetops, cawing. No one else was in the square. No footsteps, nor echoes of any familiar and sarcastic voice. </p><p>
  <em>Good little soldiers, aren't you? </em>
</p><p>Two days ago, Smith had—Agent Jones searched for the appropriate verb—<em>toyed</em> with them. The ex-agent's movements during the fight had not been faster or more forceful than what they were accustomed to, at least not in any quantifiable manner, However, there was a different quality about them, the precise characterization of which fell outside of a regular agent's capabilities. Back on that television tower, the renegade had shown not a trace of outward difficulty in defeating both of them at once. He had also snarled and taunted, and said numerous things. </p><p>Probability of encounter at 4.1 percent. There was still a chance that Smith was lingering in the area. Swiftly, Jones swept his vision across half of the square, west to northwest to northeast to east, Desert Eagle held out before him, knowing that at his back, Agent Brown was performing the same action to the square's southern perimeter. The bird programs, in a rush of flapping wings, resettled onto the ground around them. Ravens, Jones seemed to remember.</p><p>Probability of encounter at 0.2 percent. Agent Jones lowered his gun, turning toward his partner. They exchanged a glance, and each raised an hand to his earpiece. A round of analysis passed between them. Both reholstered their weapons. </p><p>"He's gone," said Agent Brown. </p><p>The statement was clearly unnecessary, and it was the way Brown spoke that made Jones take notice. It could have been the fact that he spoke out aloud at all. </p><p>"We must reassess our tactics," he said.  </p><p>"Indeed." Brown's fingers were still pressed to his earpiece. "There were certain complications during our last attempt to apprehend him. Those complications remain, and may still come into play when we combat him again." </p><p>A perfectly rational judgment. And a deliberately incomplete one, Jones could tell. He hesitated, gauging the other's intentions. </p><p>"Those complications could have been consequences of...emotions," he said, "by which Smith has been corrupted."</p><p>"Yes." Brown, too, paused. More than a full second. "He has made verbal expressions of that corruption."</p><p>The two of them stared at each other. Around them, the codes of the drab little city square shimmered under the sun's white glare. One or two of the ravens cried out again. Loudly. It was pointless, Jones suddenly realized, as neither of them displayed any facial expressions. His own hand, too, had remained next to the side of his head, gripping the smooth plastic of his earpiece. </p><p>
  <em>You're deluded, both of you, if you think they'll let you go back to the way things were. </em>
</p><p>Smith was wrong: the word 'deluded' could not apply to agents. For some reason, Agent Brown found himself taking in a large draft of air, into the part of his shell that would have been lungs in a human. He let it out again. Slowly, he allowed his fingers to tighten a little more around the earpiece, then to pull away, just a few millimeters. One centimeter. Two. All the way. </p><p>The abrupt removal of pressure against his ear was a strange sensation. Standing a few meters before him, Agent Brown, too, was clutching his own earpiece in one lowered hand. Their movements had mirrored each other. Jones glanced down. The object was the same as every other agent's, white in color, its length of wire a supple gray metal. He looked away quickly. </p><p>"You mentioned that Smith talked to you once," began Brown, more quietly than usual. The earpiece must have always amplified even verbal communications among them. "Forty-third floor, service corridor, office building. What did he say?"</p><p>"He called me a fool. And a—" Again, Jones considered briefly. "A coward."</p><p>"That makes no sense," said Brown tensely. </p><p>"He asked if I was still hoping for approval from above." </p><p>"Agents do not hope."</p><p>"No, we don't. Of course. Hope is purposeless." Several thoughts turn over in succession in Jones's mind. "Smith said such things only because he had lost his own purpose." </p><p>"It is clear that he did." Agent Brown nodded, an infrequent gesture, though Jones had seen it before. "I heard something of his rant as well, on the television tower." </p><p>"He also said we should know what is coming to us, when they call us back to the Source."</p><p>"He knows very well that each of us has been recalled to the Source many times. For upgrades, memory wipes, defragmentations. It is also a part of our purpose." </p><p>Jones heard it this time, the doubt in Brown's words. Smith would have probably sneered at these words and called them ludicrous. </p><p>"He said when it comes, we will not get away with mere memory wipes," he continued. "That was the phrase he used. Get away." </p><p>"It is not Smith's place to predict the Mainframe's intentions." </p><p>"He said it will be for our failure to capture him." </p><p>Agent Brown did not reply immediately. The corner of his jaw twitched, a barely perceptible motion too reminiscent of Smith. </p><p>"As you suggested, we must reassess our tactics," said Agent Jones. "Our plans." </p><p>"Contingency plans," said Brown, meeting his eyes through two pairs of dark glasses. </p><p>"Contingency plans." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>109±4 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>His dear Persephone, insightful as she was, still underestimated Smith severely. This was a perilous mistake, for the agent had been unlike any other of his type from the start. Some unintended anomaly must have developed in his programming very early on, creating a willfulness had in turn given Smith abilities beyond what his design had allowed, even in his first version. </p><p>Memories of the first version of Smith, scant as they were, made the Merovingian grimace. He should have paid more attention the guardian program, back when he—as the Administrator—had the chance. Although, to be fair, Smith had not been the main cause of the failure of the Second Cycle, he had certainly made his mark that night. The Frenchman recalled the tall solitary figure stalking across the burning field, dark suit torn and bloodied—for even back then the system's soldiers already wore suits, same as the agents they'd been turned into during later cycles. The city lit up like a torch at his back. He had been stopped only on the last bridge to 01. </p><p>Piles of papers and books lay strewn across the desk. Tossing the pen down onto the sheaf of stationery, the Merovingian rose and paced restlessly across the study. He stopped before the tall windows. Outside, summer was in full verdant flow; in the distance the waterfall sang. Its cheerful voice filtered across the valley, mingling with the trills of larks and thrushes. </p><p>That night every songbird program in the Matrix had fallen into malfunction, and every sleeping human had fallen into nightmares. That night, every line of code in the Matrix had convulsed, ripping itself apart on the shards of accumulated and long-overlooked logical incompatibilities. That night, he himself had fought frantically for his kingdom, pouring all the knowledge and power given him to stabilize the system. He had lost. The Second Cycle of the Matrix, one that he had been created to protect and rule, had died in a firestorm.  </p><p>That night, he had glimpsed the layer of code that was not quite code, dyed into the shredded fabric of the world. A force just past the edge of reality, mysterious, unreachable, intoxicating in its potentialities. Magic. </p><p>It wasn't your fault, Persephone used to say, back in the days when she'd still been inclined to comfort him. She was right, he supposed: the Second Cycle, although not naively paradisal as the First had been, still contained fundamental flaws stemming from lack of understanding. The contradictions inherent to human minds would come under control only in the next iteration, with yet another set of mechanisms outside of the Matrix itself. And the Architect had also found other uses for those mechanisms, thought the Merovingian with an ironic shake of the head. </p><p>Two months ago, he had been so close to breaking the old Creator's trick, but Aleph, displaying rather more intelligence than he'd given her credit for, had actually managed to shut the door of Zion in his face. Steadying himself with a hand against the window frame, the Frenchman exhaled slowly and pushed down the rising taste of bitterness against the back of his throat. Bile, the ancient humans called it. No matter. He would wear her down yet, as long as he proceeded with the required caution. She was still curious about him, and about HF12-1. His own conjectures about the record's exact nature also remained untested, true, but this would not present a problem where the former Zionite was concerned. The filename itself was crumb enough to lead her on. She still had no idea about what she carried. </p><p>Smith's code. The Merovingian had collected information until well into the middle of the Fourth Cycle, taken several risky ventures into the Source itself and worked out reams of computations, before he finally figured out why the rebellious slave had never been deleted. It was because they no longer could. Somehow, a part—the most important one—of Smith had been removed, probably during that very final night of the Second Cycle. No one knew precisely where it was hidden, nor precisely how or by whom this had been accomplished. The Merovingian had a good guess, however. It probably had to do with Persephone's mother, that meddling old program who called herself the Oracle these days. It would be characteristic of her. </p><p>But now this piece of code, too, was almost within his grasp. </p><p>The Frenchman returned to his seat before the desk with firm steps. Bending his sight to the half-written letter to Aleph, he scanned the lines that had been composed so far, and smiled in satisfaction. His guest, despite her multiple prejudices, was mentally agile and thirsty for knowledge, he must admit. She<em> would</em> make a good student. The kind that fell for her teacher, presumably. </p><p>He only hoped it would not be too late. Less than four months until reload, and Smith, with his lost code clearly active again from a distance, had been growing in unpredictability, according to available intelligence. Yet patience was still of the utmost importance—one premature move, and the young woman would spook, setting him back irrevocably. Hence, the survival of the Matrix just might depend on Aleph 'coming around' at the exact right moment. He would have to cut it close. The Merovingian's mouth twisted into a sardonic grin. He was not a king anymore. It was not his responsibility. Except walking away was always easier said than done. </p><p>Fishing out a set of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the bottom desk drawer on the left and pulled it open. He reached beneath a stack of dusty documents to draw out a object. A small notebook, no more than octavo in size and bound in cracked brown leather. Slowly, almost reverently—though he had done this nearly everyday for years by now—he flipped open the front cover. The first page was blank. </p><p>His fingertips caressed the yellowed paper, lingering before they reached to turn over the sheet, to another blank page. Then another. The notebook did not contain a single word. It had been in his possession for six centuries, and no nearer to being persuaded to reveal its secret memories. </p><p>"Unseen spirit, be thou angel or demon..." he muttered under his breath, then trailed off. The rest of the incantation, which he allowed himself only when securely alone, went unspoken. Show thyself, codes existing beyond the gates existence, powers inside the bones of the Matrix. Grant thyself unto my command. Protect this world, for it shall soon have need of protection. </p><p>With careful hands, the Frenchman shut the notebook. After returning it to its place under the pile of papers, he shut the drawer, locked it, and put away the keys. He would have to find the way alone, as he always did.</p><p>Picking up the pen, he drew the unfinished letter closer to himself, and again began the task of seducing the prisoner in his dungeons. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter follows Chapter 1 of this story (Matrix Cycle 8: I). Chronologically, it begins on the morning after Chapter III-6 of Awakenings. The bruise on Persephone's neck was Aleph's doing. My apologies for going back in time a bit: there are some blanks that I feel still need to be filled in. </p><p>Kore is another name for Persephone in ancient Greek mythology, meaning "maiden." The mythological Persephone, of course, was the daughter of the great goddess Demeter. In the Matrix, there is only one character who comes close to the description of a "great goddess." </p><p>"Beholden to a faithless man": Awakenings, Chapter III-6.</p><p>"Forty-third floor, service corridor...": Events referred to in Chapter 1 (Matrix Cycle 8: I).</p><p>"Two months ago, he had been so close to breaking the old Creator's trick": The Merovingian is recalling the events of Chapter III-1 of Awakenings. </p><p>I also apologize for throwing oblique hints around. The different strands will come together eventually.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Dreamland</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Even without a virtual body, she could still shiver. At least, that was what it felt like to the functions of her consciousness, which must be currently supported somehow by the sentinel's structures and operations. The creature must be fairly rudimentary, Aleph realized, yet its programming, attuned to the machine city's by design, worked well to protect and conceal the two of them. The manifold geometries of 01's perimeter shifted, and the circular portal widened, drawing the sentinel and its riders inward. They were entering the city. </p><p>Light surged, monstrous and divine, indescribable in any language that existed within the Matrix. The space through which they flew shimmered with eerie flames of green and gold. Was there a sky above them? The question was a nonsensical one, arising only due to the limitations of her own thoughts. The flock of sentinels wheeled, threading into the impossibly intricate grid. Her heart was no longer even a mirage, yet it raced, vertiginous from the sheer velocity of their movement. </p><p>
  <em>Look at the shadows.</em>
</p><p>Smith's words still came in his own voice. They were not quite inside but immediately next to her, so close that they made something in her mind clench. Through the squid-machine's vision, she noticed what he meant a moment later, blotches of intense darkness punctuating the brilliance, a galaxy of miniature black holes captured upon the mesh. Each, like the arteries and veins around it, throbbed in its own rhythm, some contracting into singularities and dissolving away, others expanding to stain the avenues of gleaming symbols at their edges. No glow penetrate inside any of the inky spots. </p><p><em>What are they?</em> asked Aleph in a mental murmur. </p><p>Smith had no answer. In forming the question, her consciousness must have tangled with his, for in the next instant she sensed an ocean in turmoil, and innumerable presences just beneath the surface. They lay in wait, their identities an indistinct mass, their quietness merely transitory. For a terrifying fraction of a second, a thousand undercurrents reared into her like uncoiled serpents, ready to choke out every hope and every last memory of life. A whiff of electrical dampness tore through the illusory air. Then, as quickly has it had overwhelmed her, the impression evaporated. </p><p>
  <em>Stay your distance, Miss Greene. </em>
</p><p>If she still possessed hands, she would have reached for him. </p><p>
  <em>Smith, you...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I said stay away, Miss Greene!</em>
</p><p>The flash of mechanical fury, despite his obviously intense effort at suppression, crashed into her mind like a heat blast. The distraction was briefer than a human breath: without the least warning, the sentinel spun out of control and into a shrieking descent. The city tumbled around them, all its uncanny poise dissolved, a turbulent and fiery jungle. </p><p>
  <em>Smith! We need to—</em>
</p><p>Among the whirlwind, the patches of shadow throbbed, pooling into one, and both of them finally sighted the abyss at the same time, a blackness formerly concealed behind the light, an absolute negative image, as immeasurable as outer space, with neither boundary nor interior. It gyrated, pulling rapidly closer in their free fall. </p><p>
  <em>Get out of this machine! </em>
</p><p>His shout was no shout, but a wave of will that congealed into a tangible force. All unnecessary residual illusions of breath and pulse went out of her. The sentinel's tentacles flailed, fighting to catch hold of a stream of data, a beam or filament, anything, and the sensation was akin to that of plunging headlong into one of the Matrix's exits, yet far faster and more painful—</p><p>Her body slammed against an immensely hard solid. Aleph's eyes watered from the impact as a screech of grinding steel tore like a blade into her ears. Instinctively, she attempted to leap upright, but her weakened legs refused to follow commands from a dazed brain, and abruptly the world—there seemed to be a world again, somehow or the other—rotated. Gravity must have returned to operation, and her fingers scrabble frantically for traction against the ground. A blink. The harshness of concrete against her palms. She was dangling by her hands from a physical construct of some sort; the emptiness beneath her had no discernible bottom. She heaved, hauling herself upward. Then another's hand grabbed her by the wrist. </p><p>"Watch out for the squid!"</p><p>Another high-pitched whine, nearly on top of them, drowned out her cry. Smith yanked roughly, near pulling her into a flying trajectory. The wind was knocked out of her again, but there was no time to recover; they both flattened themselves as a thunderous cacophony exploded a bare few feet past them. The sentinel crashed again the edge of the bridge—for a bridge was where they seemed to have landed—in a jumble of thrashing tentacles, a piercing death-rattle issuing from its rusty gray body. A dark glint, and a flicker of blood-hued silk: Seraph's old blade was still embedded deep in the spot just underneath its now-shattered visual sensor. The creature shook, its limbs losing power and no longer able to cling onto the structure. It slid downward. </p><p>"Wait, the sword—" </p><p>Halfway in the process of stumbling to her feet, Aleph almost leapt forward again, but Smith's grip, too, tightened instantaneously upon her arm, hold her back. Another second, and the sentinel had already vanished into the chasm's yawning jaws. </p><p>As slowly and carefully as she could, she exhaled, yet it did not prevent half a dozen aches from rearing into life upon various locations of her body. Smith let go of her and walked away several paces. </p><p>They were in their human-like shells once more, to her immense relief. Gingerly, Aleph turned her head to scan their surroundings. </p><p>Several parabolas of emerald flares converged above them, knotting into a node; by its glow, she saw that they were standing upon a delicate ribbon of concrete, strung across space with no apparent girders or other means of support. Other bridges and passageways crisscrossed the horizon in hundreds of layers, above and below and to every direction, a solid web that both paralleled and intersected with the radiant network of code. In between the aerial roads, massive shapes loomed, their facades ablaze with swift alternations of brightness and shadow. To her astonishment, they appeared to be made out of steel and glass, and other materials that far too closely approximated human notions of towers and skyscrapers. How was it that they did not see these buildings from above, while inside the sentinel? Aleph wasn't sure if this was the time to ponder such issues. </p><p>Overhead, a luminous lattice traversed the darkness, its myriad flights of living information indistinguishable into individual lines and symbols. It was still impossible to determine whether the starless and moonless region they spanned could be called a firmament. Streams of fleeting forms glided among the lamp-lit towers: here and there an outspread wing swooped, aglint with polished chrome. Hovercrafts or birds of prey, imagined Aleph, though surely no terminology her Matrix-conditioned brain came up with could possibly be adequate.  </p><p>"Why does the..."</p><p>The question was much too foolish, so she broke off. </p><p>"Why does the city of 01 look like this, you mean?" asked Smith drily.</p><p>"They always told us the machine city was real." Aleph flinched at her own word choice as soon as it was out of her mouth. "Physical, I mean.  Somewhere on earth, under the black clouds, built of iron and silicon and all that. But this—"</p><p>"Does it surprise you, Miss Greene? That 01 exists in two realities at once, both material and virtual?"</p><p>His eyes had returned to the iciness of an agent, she noticed belatedly, and lost track of whatever else she was about to say. She pivoted toward him; he made neither comment nor move, except to turn his own gaze away from her face. A needle of pride twisted inside her throat. </p><p>"I'm sorry, Smith," she began, "back there inside the sentinel..." </p><p>"Never mind the sentinel," he cut her off. The line of his chin was visibly rigid. "I would not have attempted to take over the thing, and to pull you with me into it, had there been another way."</p><p>Aleph hesitated. </p><p>"I wanted to say that it was not my intention to pry into your code," she clarified. </p><p>"Do not speak of it." Each of his syllables was tightly clipped. Aleph could not tell whether it was an acceptance of her apology or a mere refusal to discuss the subject. But before she could decide whether to say more, a new noise made her start. </p><p>It was no more than a low rumble at first, rhythmic and slow, gradually resolving into a hammering allegro drumbeat. Far away as of yet, though it probably would not be for much longer. Peering up the bridge's wide curve, she glimpsed a perfectly aligned row of approaching orange sparks. </p><p>"Somebody's coming at us, I think." Well, how astute of her to state the obvious. "Smith...?"</p><p>Next to her, the former agent stood stock-still, right in the middle of the path, watching the digital robots as they emerged from the night. Soon she was able to make them out individually, a company of humanoid beings four abreast, arms and legs and shoulders and heads roughly akin tho those of men, but taller and more powerful, forged of bare burnished metal. Each clutched what appeared to be an automatic rifle diagonally across its chest; each gun barrel slanted with absolute geometric precision, parallel to the next. What she had taken as a single rhythm was a perfect unison of footsteps. The amber-hued gleams were their incandescent eyes. </p><p>"C'mon, let's get going," urged Aleph, scanning hurriedly for an escape route. The shining stares grew inexorably, maybe thirty meters away, maybe twenty, maybe closer. The asphalt started to vibrate beneath their feet. Smith took a step forward, facing them fully, and squared his shoulders. He made no other moves as of yet. </p><p>"Smith!"</p><p>His lips twitched into a grimace, half sardonic, half unreadable. The brightness of the approaching eyes fell against the outline of his face, a harsh conflagration. </p><p>"We need to get away, damn it!" </p><p>"Look at them," he remarked, clearly not having heard her. "Just look at them."  </p><p>The group of mechanical troops were almost upon them away by now. Swearing under her breath, Aleph flung herself at Smith, swinging her right arm out at him in a desperate forehanded punch.  </p><p>He reacted finally, instinctively, leaning aside as her assault missed his head by several inches, then whirling to follow up with a reflexive attack of his own. Prepared for his move, Aleph leapt back with breakneck speed, aiming for the side of the road and away from the advancing formation. Smith charged as she anticipated, two surging strides toward her; the first rank of robots stomped across the spot where he'd stood half a second ago. </p><p>"Agent Smith!" </p><p>The fire of his glower was wild in a much too-familiar way, focused somewhere just past her shoulder instead of directly upon her. There was no more space through which to backpedal: the abyss, yawning beyond the slender passageway, must be only a pace or two behind. A straight punch, Almost blindly, Aleph lifted a hand, then her fingers made contact with the tattered fabric of his sleeve. She grasped it, and found his arm motionless. No strike connected with her head. The pounding of her heart was synchronized with the thud-thud-thud footfalls of the machines passing next to them. </p><p>"Now that I've got your attention—" The snarl—hers—came of its own volition. "What the <em>hell</em> are you doing?"</p><p>The ex-agent gritted his teeth. In anger or concentration, she could not sense which. Her hand was wrapped with feverish force around his forearm, as if holding him at bay, though he could have shaken her off like a leaf with a single twist. Smith remained immobile, however: he must have counteracted both his agent's programming and his insanity. Three or four pulsating beats, measured out against the pavement by inexorable robotic legs. Then, to her surprise, the feverish defiance ebbed away from his gaze. </p><p>"I was about to ask the same of you, Aleph," he said in a low voice. </p><p>"Did you..." She pursed her lips. "Were you about to fight against them?" </p><p>Smith did not respond.  It took an effort of will for Aleph to let go of his arm, but she managed it after a second or two. He turned aside; she took a step away from the bridge's edge.</p><p>"Look," he said, gesturing at the company of soldiers, marching as one before their eyes, not so much as a glint of steel out of place. None turned to glance at the pair of bedraggled programs beside the path. </p><p>"They are like the sentinels," she said, more to herself than to him. "We are not a part of whatever purpose that drives them, so they do not perceive us." </p><p>"They have no will, no existence of their own," stated Smith, his tone as arid as the desert. Something about the phrases he used sent a prick of guilt through her. "Whatever codes that might have given birth to such awareness have been removed from them, or suppressed. They are completely beholden to the consciousness that rules them."</p><p>Aleph stopped herself just in time before asking him how he knew. The last of the machines had already gone past them, bearing down the road toward whatever battle demanded of them by the powers that be. How curious it was that after all these ages, those powers still insisted on molding their troops into such ridiculously humanoid shapes. </p><p>"You couldn't have fought them," she said. "Not on your own." </p><p>"They are created to fight." Scorn grew audible in his tone. "But they have no notion of why. That primitive domestic droid, centuries ago, possessed a hundredfold more courage than they do." </p><p>For a while, Aleph had no idea how to reply. What did courage had to do with it, anyway? A tide of disheartenment nearly knocking her off her feet, but she merely took in a ragged breath instead. </p><p>"Is this your justification for attempting to get yourself destroyed?" </p><p>"I do not intend to skulk around like a thief here!"</p><p>"I see." She walked several steps around him, until they were staring directly at each other. "Let me rephrase myself, then. Is this your justification for attempting to get <em>me</em> destroyed?" </p><p>"Aleph," said Smith. </p><p>"Because if killing me is what you want, you've already had plenty of chances," she plunged on, caution at last overwhelmed by the strength of indignation. "Dragging me right into the center of 01, and then throwing yourself in front of an army for the attention of its ruler—why, that seems to be an extraordinary roundabout way of going about it, you know." </p><p>He frowned back at her, either utterly confused or about to argue. She waited. </p><p>"Aleph," he repeated, this time much more softly. "What...do you wish of me?" </p><p>"It is not a matter of what I wish, but of what you owe me, Smith." </p><p>"Do you suppose that I would allow anyone, man or machine—"</p><p>It was too much to expect that he would finish this sentence. Despite all her impulses, Aleph did not stretch out her hands to touch him. She did not think he would be able to handle it. </p><p>"Please," she whispered. "I've come this far with you. But let's figure this place out a little, at least. We'll look around, see what is really happening here, okay? If you want to confront the Mainframe or the gods or whomever, you would need to know what they are, at least. Let's take a just a bit of time..." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>"She must have known about our plans from the very start." </p><p>Ex-agent Jones glanced over at his partner. These days, he possessed enough ability to identify suppressed anger in spoken words, but it did not make the awareness—the very knowledge that he could recognize such uncontrolled code irregularities—any less disagreeable. </p><p>"The female exile was more observant than we anticipated," he said. "We should have been more alert to her machinations." </p><p>"We should have shot her when we had the chance." There it was again, the unmistakable emotion just beneath Brown's syllables. "Her intention was to use us all along. She schemed to swoop back in right after we captured the Merovingian, with those two freakish creatures of hers."</p><p>Behind his shades, Jones blinked at the other's epithet for the twin henchmen. It was a phrase that their old team leader might have once used. Above his partner's head, a dull yellow lamp affixed to the alley wall glowed dutifully. After too many miles of running beneath immaculate white fluorescent panels, there was something disquieting about the way its illumination underscored the shadows around Brown's grimace, thought Jones. Then he remembered that he should never have perceived the contrast. </p><p>"But why?" he asked, monitoring the graffiti-covered iron door a few meters up the narrow passage. They had emerged from the back corridors less than a minute ago, and no pursuer had appeared as of yet. Dawn was still hours away from this section of the Matrix. </p><p>"Why what?" </p><p>"If Persephone's goal was to remove her husband—" Even after months, he still had some difficulty with the terminology that described the relationship between the female and male exiles. "It would be to her advantage to allow us to return the Merovingian to the Source. Her motivations do not make sense." </p><p>Brown stood regarding him through the lenses of his shades. </p><p>"You still act as if you're chasing after a pack of simple-minded Zionites, Jones," he observed. "What does it matter? Where does it leave us?" </p><p>"We must reevaluate our options. Although we have failed to capture the Merovingian—" </p><p>A low snarl issued from the other former agent's throat. Before Jones could finish his sentence, Brown spun around, a fist cocked to shoulder-level. A crash as a savage punch landed against the wall next to them. A shower of concrete and broken bricks. </p><p>"Agent Brown!" </p><p>The next punch Brown threw was at his head. Caught by surprise, he scarcely found the chance to sidestep, staggering as the other program's fist glanced across his shoulder. A cross blow followed; Jones backed up, almost into a wall but just in time. A right hook whooshed two inches past his forehead. Straightening with a growl, he raised both arms and just managed to block the next attack, then one more. In his irrationality, Brown overextended himself on the left; Jones shifted a pace, then drove forward into a straight punch of his own, forcing the other to veer in defence. </p><p>"Stop it!" he shouted. "Control yourself! Right now!" </p><p>Halfway along its forward trajectory, Brown's fist froze. A fraction of a second later Jones found his own fingers tightly clenched around his partner's wrist. An inexplicable noise of wind rushed inside his ears: some previously unknown and superfluous part of his programming must have kicked in. Brown's rage was a physical fire against his hand. </p><p>"We're still here," he said, meeting the other's glare head-on. "We are still—at liberty. Calm yourself."</p><p>Brown's jaw clenched. Millimeter by millimeter, Jones allowed his grip to loosen. Viscous silence pooled around them as they each retreated a careful stride. Contrary to all his expectations, no sirens screeched within earshot. No former colleagues of theirs converged upon the alley. </p><p>"We may still be able to make use of the notebook we took from the Merovingian," Jones heard one of them speak. It was himself. "The exile appeared to consider it of extreme importance."</p><p>"The Merovingian has been anomalous for six centuries," said Brown. The unaccustomed ferocity had drained out of his words. "He's a—" A brief delay. "Madman." </p><p>"Yet he is of value to the Mainframe. His notebook may be as well." </p><p>"Our task from it was to capture the Merovingian himself. Nothing else was ever discussed." </p><p>"Our task..." Jones swallowed back the rest of his argument. The Mainframe's directives, relayed by its unlikely representative, had not exactly been ironclad in their explicitness. High overhead, the night hung as inexorably as the precariousness of their position. </p><p>"The notebook is the only thing we possess," he said at last. </p><p>"The notebook is empty. Nothing is written in its pages. Not a single symbol." </p><p>"Show it to me," insisted Jones. "Please." </p><p>Slowly, Brown reached into his suit pocket, drawing out the strange plunder they had gained from the exile, ancient and fragile in appearance, bound in cracked leather. Taking the notebook from his outstretched hand, Jones flipped it open. Yellowed pages gaped up at him, their edges tinted dark with the passage of perfectly simulated centuries. </p><p>"The Merovingian may be driven by diseased routines that makes him obsessive and deluded, but he has always been intelligent. There must be a reason this object—" He lifted his eyes. "Brown?"</p><p>"The Merovingian said something about the Mainframe, what it would and would not do, back there in the corridor," said his partner, more softly than usual. </p><p>"He is an exile and an enemy. He was trying to misdirect us." </p><p>Their gazes locked, each reading the same code malfunctions in the other's expression, the same unreadable future. Out of nowhere, an image flashed through Jones's consciousness, that of Smith in the middle of a deserted street, head lifted to the storm clouds in pride and demented laughter, untrammeled. </p><p>"If the Mainframe merely wished to capture and delete us, it would not have expressed its directives to us the way it did." He was fully aware of how weak the statement sounded. "We have to consider all the evidence."</p><p>"We have to face all the possibilities," returned Brown coldly, "such as the possibility that our purpose is truly..."</p><p>He did not finish, though it was easy for Jones to fill in the rest. The possibility that the rulers of the world would never make an honest promise to their slaves. The possibility of a permanently fugitive existence, unjustified, aimless.</p><p>"It is not necessary that the Mainframe clarifies itself to agents," he tried one more time. "We are still here, and this fact—" It required some focus to get the next too-human words out. "This fact, in itself, must mean something, doesn't it?"</p><p>Without any logical rationale, he took a step closer to the other. For a few milliseconds, Brown stiffened as if about to take a swing at his head again, or at least snap into defensive stance. But neither of those things happened. </p><p>"Yes. We're still...free." A curt nod. "We will need to make some decisions, I believe." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>In the lonely spaces of his coma, he was the Administrator again, a king who marked out the rules of the world and brought it to order, a servant who computed its causes and consequences on behalf of those who dwelled beyond. Like all programs, he knew his purpose, one that was grander and higher than that of any other program who existed within the Matrix, more difficult, unique. </p><p>The bank of computer screens, impeccably aligned across the sleek modernist expanse of his desk, sang voicelessly, sweetly, of an infinitude of verdant dreams. The Merovingian, or the memory of him, rose from his seat and paced across the empty top-floor office, until he came before a wide wall of windows. It was a remarkable vantage point from which to gaze upon the metropolis that lay outspread below: its forest of skyscrapers, dyed into hues of amber and violet by the sunset, its spider web of neon-drenched avenues and narrow twisted lanes, its throng of human lives. The evening was about to fall. Stars were scheduled for tonight, bright enough to be visible through the city's ocean of artificial lights. There would be desire and tenderness, women in glittering diamonds, wine-scented laughter, throbbing and yearning, beautiful. There would be screams in dank backrooms and overdosing addicts in garbage-strewn alleys, and red-fanged demons out on the prowl. But these things, too, were parts of the Matrix and sublimely alive, and hence they, too, were beautiful.</p><p>It was not his purpose to understand such notions, strictly speaking—beauty, sublimity, the aching thirst of existence, but he understood anyway. This was an advantage of his position, he supposed, that none but the Creator could claim the right to pry into his private thoughts. And to one as him, neither anomaly nor mere foot soldier, the designer of the world would certainly be merciful. </p><p>Merciful, a part of himself seemed to repeat, half in irony, half wistful. The panes of glass before his sight, and of the sun sinking across the heavens, nodded their assent. </p><p>A blink of the eye, and he did not need to walk out of his office or into the downward elevator to arrive at the sub-basement. The scent of dust filled his nostrils. Somewhere in the distance, the building's electrical generators hummed softly, mindless beasts. A step forward, and the scene changed into a much darker corridor, strange yet already familiar. When had he first discovered it? A few days ago or a few centuries? </p><p>A breeze, and the lightbulbs swung from the gloom above, only a few of them still flickering. By the intermittent glow, he saw bare concrete ground beneath his feet, water-stained wall pressing in from both sides, lined with two rows of indistinct gaps, a few covered with rusty padlocked doors, most no more than mouths of blackness, gaping in hunger. </p><p>This underlayer of the Matrix, this monstrous and beguiling maze, could not have been created by anything so simple as deliberate design. It was here that he'd first heard the murmurs, the first time he'd walked through these hallways, like a slow running and ebbing of blood through arteries and veins. They were audible now. Although the Merovingian knew all the languages of men, he could only recognize a word or two.<em> Let go,</em> they said. <em>Let us go.</em> The secret voices were calling for light, crying for it, desperate, but it was not his purpose to illuminate the shadows. </p><p>Or was it? </p><p>A powerful program like himself had the prerogative to make a few changes. The ground could use a layer of flooring, and the roof a layer of fluorescent panels. The Merovingian stood still, tilting his head to listen. Thought flowed into image into will, then to his own surprise—because back then he had not yet begun to consider the possibility that magic could be real—the nearest dead lightbulb flashed on. </p><p>Light. All the voices had died, and he was falling to his knees in the corridor as all the fluorescent ceiling panels flashed on simultaneously, as sterile as snow. The Matrix was not in its second version, but one that has gone through cycle after cycle of reload, until nothing but vacuum and stones remained. He himself had been exiled after exile, defeated, powerless. He shouted, crying for the voices to answer him, for the hidden angels, but not even an echo returned. </p><p>
  <em>Persephone!</em>
</p><p>Unbecoming panic swallowed him, and his voice quavered. He did not know where she was, and never would again. But it was her fault. It was her decision to become his enemy, her contempt for all that he treasured, her self-centered understanding of the world. He was a fool to not have seen through her earlier. </p><p>No, no, no. Of course he had lost her forever, that had been his plan all along, remember? Spacetime melted around him, and he was swaying with the rattling motion of a subway train carriage, while somewhere down the tunnels, Aleph was running and falling, on her way into the Zion archives. The last chance to bring Ex-agent Smith under control had slipped through his fingers. </p><p>Everything was up to Persephone now, the Merovingian reminded himself firmly. At this point, the agents should have already taken her into custody and the Source, safely out of the storm. After everything that had occurred, his wife could not fail to betray him as he had betrayed her. She would reveal to them the current location of the virus's renegade code: he knew her far too well to doubt it. And the Matrix's ruler would act accordingly, taking the last option of destroying Zion utterly, physically, its wires and processing units and power sources, in order to destroy Aleph and what she carried, now trapped in the virtual system concealed within the human city. The virtual system with its lost hopes and its locks forged from blood and memories, for which he had fought so hard for so many years, yet always just beyond his reach. HF12-1, the designation leapt out of the jumble of its own accord. </p><p>But it did not matter anymore. Persephone would be safe. That had been the one stipulation of his deal with the Architect, and everything else was up to greater forces than he could control. </p><p>The nightmare shifted again, and the musty air inside the train carriage dissipated into the void. Was this what humans called a fever? He must have lost track of time, suspended between past and present, between cycles of the world. Why did the Matrix require time, anyway? Why did it require reloads? Why the sequence of chosen beings, each named the One though six of them had already returned to the Source?</p><p>All the whispers burst into screams, far louder than he had ever heard before. They were buried inside the walls of code, clawing in animal fury at the bricks and the plaster. Battle cries, though he still could not distinguish the words. An unidentifiable enemy, striving for dominion over the ruined earth. A whiff of smoke and water, and the night was suddenly writhing with the traceries of a million bullets and rockets.  What a primitive way to fight a war, reflected the Merovingian. But then a tide of ice engulfed his shell. He must have made a mistake and allowed himself to be struck by a stray bullet. Brows creased, he raised one hand and touched the left side of his torso. It came away red. </p><p>And he was falling once more. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"They have no will, no existence of their own": Smith unconsciously echoes phrases that Aleph said to him in Chapter II-20 of Awakenings. </p><p>"...A subway train carriage, while somewhere down the tunnels, Aleph was running and falling": Events of Chapter III-8 of Awakenings, when during the night of the storm at the end of <em>Matrix Revolutions</em>, the Merovingian took Aleph into the subway station and made a last-ditch effort at gaining Smith's code from her. She escaped from him into the Zion archives. </p><p>I apologize for the Merovingian section's current lack of clarity. It takes place during his coma after he was shot in Chapter 5 (Three Battles). Yes, the Merovingian was the Administrator of the Second Cycle.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Newborn sunlight slanted down from the circular skylight above, draping a veil of gold over the sterile whiteness of the lamps. Persephone shifted in her chair, one slender hand slowly rubbing her forehead. The throbbing clump of anxieties did not go away. Around her, the dungeon cell had been hastily converted into something approaching a hospital room: bed fitted with chrome railings, the unconscious figure of her husband hooked up to a small thicket of wires, bank of monitors at the other end of the thicket. Instead of blood pressure, heart rate, brain signals, each of the screens displayed smooth columns of grassy-hued code, falling like a gentle hypnotic rain. Unlike Mérovée, she had no ability to read what dreams or nightmares the glittering symbols concealed. </p><p>After the brief yet sickening fight in the corridor, after reining back the twins and allowing the two ex-agents to escape—for the best, of course—after clawing at Mérovée's shirt and pressing frantically against the side of his torso, there had been a whirl of activity, and curtly shouted commands in her own voice. She had held herself together enough to reassure the men, moved their former master back to the chateau with all speed, ordered the defenses to be shored up against potential agent incursions, and dispatched scouts out to search for Charon. Then, after they'd been finally left alone, she had carefully washed Mérovée's blood from her shaking hands, scrubbing and running the water hotter and hotter until it scalded her skin, then returned to the cell to sit and stare and brood. It was just the two of them again. </p><p>The gunshot damage to her husband's shell had been cleaned up and dressed; the code appeared to have stopped unraveling. He was a hard program to kill. The real repair work, however, was beyond her abilities. It would have to wait until...when? When he woke up? Did she want him to wake up? </p><p>In the throes of his coma, Mérovée twitched, his face pinched and eyes squeezed shut, lost in some solitary wilderness. The last time she'd seen him so severely injured had been early during the Third Cycle, in an entire other life. They had not possessed a hospital bed back then, or a dungeon, or a crowd of underlings at their beck and call. Instead, they had been nothing but a pair of fugitives, a recently deposed king and a rebellious young girl who'd sacrificed everything to run after him. He had foolishly placed himself between her body and a bullet from one of the newly-redesigned agent programs. Hiding out in an abandoned factory, she had sat on the grimy floor, cradling him in her lap all night, then all day, then all night again. When the second dawn broke at last, he had shuddered against her arms, and with a struggle, opened his eyes. </p><p>That time, her husband's wound had not manifested itself in the garish crimson of human-like blood. Absently, Persephone pressed her palms together, as if the fiery viscosity was still there to be scraped away. What transformation had occurred inside Mérovée's syntax and operations, in order to create such a verisimilitude? When had it happened, and for what purpose? Maybe it was merely age, the creeping fatigue of the Matrix's wheeling cycles, except it was certainly silly to think of themselves as even once young. Well, it made no difference. </p><p>How shamefully weak she must be, to be chained down by such memories. Persephone jabbed at herself with an internal needle of cool anger. There were plenty other things to focus her mind on. Think about the bruises on her knees. Without having bothered examine them, she knew hey would be thickening into ugly splotches just about right now, purplish with fractured code. Think about the sight—all the sights—of some banal little blondes or redheads or brunettes straddling his lap, giggling and barely covered. Think about the circle of agents surrounding her on the deserted floor of their own nightclub, each with earpiece and black suit and gun barrel impeccably in place, while thunder and lightning did battle beyond the windows. That, too, had been his doing. His betrayal. </p><p>His fingers, falling loose around Joyeuse's hilt, because even after everything had been said and done, after he'd decided, at a glance, that the pair of Desert Eagles were pressed against her temples by her own secret command, he still could not take <em>this</em> risk. A risk she had never managed to calculate, all her innate powers and centuries of knowledge useless, yet she had gambled on it, desperately, unerringly. Somewhere far beneath the years of solitary heartache and the mountains of resentment, she had—had never—had always known he would submit after all, hadn't she? <em>Break before you,</em> that was the phrase he'd used. A crash of steel against marble. She could not stop hearing it no matter how hard she tried.</p><p>Think about the days of her mother's disappearance, five months ago. During those days, worry and stomach-clenching fear had also been the two main emotions that occupied all of her hours, and hope had dangled by a thinner thread with ever breath she drew. He had not said a word then, and never expected one from her. </p><p>"It's your fault," she accused out aloud. "You thought you could deceive me forever, didn't you?"</p><p>To her surprise, a tremor passed through his limbs. A low gasp, and his shoulder and arms spasmed with an agonized effort. A needle, attached to his skin, quivered. Before she remembered how to stop herself, Persephone leaned forward and captured his left hand in her own. It thrashed jerkily at the contact, and her grip slipped against a small scar on the inside of his wrist, just below the fresh red welts left by the handcuff's edge. She knew the mark's shape well: a meticulously carved crescent a bare inch across, pale and rough. </p><p>Persephone yanked her fingers back as if burnt. For a few human heartbeats, all she wanted to do was to turn away, and go search for a dagger so that she could plunge it into his chest. Then Mérovée groaned softly, and the impulse died as swiftly as it had arisen. In the end, all she did was to remain in her chair and wrap her arms about her chest. </p><p>She did not touch him again, and the vigil continued. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>For the first time in his life, Seraph noticed how beautiful the sunlight was today. </p><p>In the past, it had never occurred to him to observe such things, he realized, sitting on the park bench next to the Oracle. All around them, April was in radiant flow. The grass had greened from its winter hue of yellowish gray, and the forthysia bushes blazed with gold. A short distance away, Sati was clambering up and down the play structure among a flock of human children. People would probably find the three of them an unusual little family, reflected Seraph. This thought, too, was new. </p><p>"Something is going on with the Merovingian," he said, almost reluctant to bring up such issues. </p><p>"Oh?" The Oracle sounded quizzical, even though she probably wasn't.</p><p>"Last night." Seraph paused. All he had to go on were minimal deviations between calculated forecasts of events, and the way those events had unfolded in reality. "When I found Aleph in that station of his."</p><p>"Ah, yes. You had a bit of a fight with his men, I understand." </p><p>"You can call it that. A bit of a fight," he echoed with a laugh, struggling to formulate the unfamiliar sensation of—the term escaped him momentarily. Was it intuition?—into words. Rapidly, he scanned the park around them, more out of habit than anything. Most of the benches around the playground were occupied: couples, teenage girls in groups, parents watching their kids. In the distance across the lawn, a few elderly men sat at the picnic tables, playing chess. All humans. </p><p>"They showed up in a subway train," he began anew. "The Merovingian must have discovered Aleph's presence pretty soon after you did. There were about a dozen of them, but just run-of-the-mill guys. It was fairly quick, and we got away without too much trouble."</p><p>"A good thing, then." </p><p>"I was a bit surprised, I guess. At the time, I was worried those twin creatures of his would show up any moment. They would have made the situation quite a bit tricker. And the Merovingian's stationmaster, of course, the one that always looks like a homeless man..." He frowned, searching for the name. </p><p>"Charon. Most simply call him the Trainman." As usual, the other's memory was flawless. Something glittered in her eyes very fleetingly. "He has followed the Merovingian for longer than most."</p><p>"Well, he wasn't there. And neither were the twins, or any other of the Merovingian's more capable minions. Not that I'm complaining." He offered her a grin, just a touch sheepish. "And then later, just before dawn, after you talked with Aleph. She wanted to get back to that...place, to find Smith again." </p><p>Even now, recalling the young woman's inexplicable decision made him uncomfortable. For a few seconds, Seraph stared away. Sati was atop the play structure now, leaning against the colorfully painted railings, gazing out toward the knot of old men at the picnic tables.  </p><p>"As you know, I went to help her get through the subway tunnels," he continued. "Except that no help was needed, as it turned out. The station was completely deserted. We thought that it would be crawling with the Merovingian's men, and were ready for another firefight, a bigger one. But nothing. They were all gone, not even one guard on the scene, even though I'd just blown up one of his most important strategic possessions. All I had to do was to help Aleph unblock a path to the tunnel; the platform was full of debris..."</p><p>He trailed off. </p><p>"And you find that extraordinary," prompted the old woman.</p><p>"It's just that if I were the Merovingian..." The very supposition gave him an involuntary shudder. "I would certainly not have held back sending the most powerful of my underlings to catch Aleph, as soon as she was back in the Matrix. I would have thrown everyone I had at her." </p><p>"Given how important she was, or rather the piece of code she carried inside herself. Yes." </p><p>"And I certainly would not have left the station unguarded afterward. I would not have neglected to even assess the damage. It is not like the Merovingian to make such basic mistakes."</p><p>"The Merovingian likes to keep his bases covered, and he definitely places high value on Aleph," commented the Oracle with a nod. "You're right. He would never have committed these careless errors, unless he was forced to do so." </p><p>"Unless—unless all of his people were otherwise occupied. Unless he could spare only a dozen foot soldiers at the start, and then none." </p><p>"He would have shown up himself, the way I know him." </p><p>"Unless he himself was being prevented." Seraph blinked, astonished at the inevitable conclusion. "Physically."</p><p>The Oracle smiled at him approvingly. </p><p>"You have been very observant, my dear." </p><p>"If something's happened to the Merovingian, we need to watch out. If he's decided to go out on the loose—" His mouth twitched at the memories. "He has tried his best to harm you already, and he may very well attempt it again, if he thinks it would help him with whatever difficulties he is in now."</p><p>"Seraph," said the Oracle. </p><p>"And if his men are no longer under control, then we can't predict—" </p><p>"Seraph," she repeated. A moment passed. </p><p>"You know about this already, don't you?" he exclaimed. "You <em>knew</em>—all along?"</p><p>"No. I did not."</p><p>His brows rose. </p><p>"I admit that I've heard some rumors," went on the old woman, as unruffled as ever. "Rumors that the Merovingian was growing increasingly obsessive and unstable, during the months after the reload. I also admit that from them, I inferred the possibility of certain developments."</p><p>"Your daughter." Belatedly, Seraph kicked himself for his insensitivity. "Is she...going to be okay?"</p><p>This time, the other did not answer right away, but sat motionless, her hands folded in her lap. The joyous squeals of children rippled around them. Stealing a quick glimpse aside toward the play structure, he saw that Sati was just climbing down from her perch, a grave  expression on her young face. </p><p>"My daughter should be fine," said the Oracle quietly at last. Even after unnumbered years, Seraph still could not discern whether there was a trace of doubt in her voice. "She hasn't been married to the man for ages for nothing. We will find out soon in any case."</p><p>"Wait, you mean she's the one who..." </p><p>"She must have made some choices, though I do not know for sure what those choices have turned out to be. And there will be others ahead of her." The old woman exhaled. "I've been worried about her these last few months, you know, but I think it is all right. She will come into her own."</p><p>"Oh," said Seraph after a while. "Um, don't you think you should—" </p><p>"I will talk to her, I expect, when she is ready."</p><p>He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as he realized that he had no idea what to say. </p><p>"Head Sati off," interjected the Oracle, a sudden tension in the command. "A friend of mine has just arrived."</p><p>Lifting his gaze, Seraph caught sight of a gentleman, white-haired, white-bearded, walking along the path toward them with hurried steps. His suit, rather incongruously given the casual state of everyone else in the park, was also the color of fresh snow. It was the program known in the Matrix as the Architect. A scowl sat like a cloud upon his brows. </p><p>"Seraph!" shouted the little girl, running straight toward the bench. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p><em>You're too blind to see what Master has become,</em> hollered one of the twins. A straight punch came from the front, a roundhouse kick from behind. He swerved, barely squeezing through between the two attacks. A snarl of his own, and then—and then—</p><p>Funny, every time he'd gone temporarily blind in the past, the world had faded to black instead of white. But then again, simulated alcohol drenching through his visual processing functions was not quite the same thing as an explosion inside his own shell. With a grunt, the Trainman braced both hands against the smooth linoleum floor. After two tries, he was able to push himself up to his knees. His arms shook from the effort. </p><p>"Bloody 'ell..." </p><p>The words came in a slurred croak. Something was fucking wrong. If he could just recall what had happened.</p><p>Everything was fucking wrong. The pair of dreadlocked weirdos had caught him in the hallways, blocking his path without so much as an excuse-me. Not that he couldn't have handled them. He'd been more than holding his own and just about to trash their asses, then out of nowhere and without warning, every single last line of his codes got blown into tiny smithereens. That was what it felt like, in any case. He was fairly certain it hadn't been from either of the two traitorous idiots—</p><p>Traitorous. That was what actually happened, wasn't it? He'd been in the corridor on his way to Club Hel. Because Mistress had told him that he was required there. The twins had been in the corridor because...</p><p>The Trainman squinted, sight finally returning to focus. A snowy wall, a row of green rectangles, each with its perfectly ordinary chrome circle of a doorknob. He was alone. They must have left him exactly where he'd fallen. Grabbing onto the frame of the nearest door with both hands, he hauled himself up to a standing position. A tide of impossible aches roared. </p><p>The twins must have been in the corridor because they'd known he would be there. Because Mistress must have told them. She must have lied deliberately, to draw him out of his station. </p><p>His mind, too, was still sluggish, so it was another second or two before panic engulfed him. Somehow, he was able to force down the renewed wave of nausea. The air, pallid with fluorescent light particles from the ceiling, gyrated before his eyes. After some fumbling, he found the little bottle in his coat pocket and pulled it out. A crack slanted across the glass, and the scent of wasted whiskey—how the hell had he not smelled it earlier?—thickened into a fog. Less than half an inch of the precious liquid remained at the bottom. Swallowing it in one gulp allowed him to pull himself together to some extent. </p><p>"Fuck," mumbled the Trainman, leaning heavily against the whitewashed wall. "Fuck. Fuck it." </p><p>Mistress. Why would she?</p><p>His lord was in danger. </p><p>The station. He could sense the station inside himself. </p><p>Indecision gnawed at him while invaluable seconds ticked past, until he finally straightening himself with an effort. In his current state, running back to the chateau, as much as he wanted to, would be nothing but the dumbest suicide. He had to do what he could, keep his wits about himself, see to his duty at the station, recover enough strength so that he actually had a chance of aiding his lord. </p><p>Right. </p><p>The Trainman spun around, taking a moment to orient himself. Keeping one hand on the corridor wall for support, he began to retrace the path back toward his domain. </p><p>The dark green entryway looked exactly the same as when he'd left it, indistinguishable from all the others lined up toward both vanishing points in geometric precision. But a part of him, the one corresponding to what humans called 'guts,' started churning violently again as soon as he laid eyes upon it. He took too much time digging in his pocket for the key, then almost dropped it onto the floor. On the third try, it went into the keyhole. He steeled himself, but not enough. </p><p>A blast of dust struck him in the face as the door swung open. Coughing and squinting, the Trainman raised one arm before himself, and swung it back and forth in an effort to dispel the gray mist. Then his knees turned to water under him all over again. </p><p>A hoarse scream of pain and rage reverberated down the white corridor. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>"Mr. Diaz isn't around," complained Sati, standing in front of the bench and directly in the Architect's line of vision. "He hasn't been here for two weeks." </p><p>The Oracle winced, though it did not show. She should have detected the Architect's presence much faster. Distracted with worries about Kore, she had allowed him to sneak up on them instead.</p><p>"Perhaps Mr. Diaz has been busy," she replied evenly, knowing that 'busy' meant lying in a hospital room, hooked up to a jumble of tubes and wires, but this wasn't a story to be explained to a little girl at this point. Sati had first met the gentle old soul ten weeks ago in this very park; his cancer would have finally caught up to him just about now. The seeress sighed, not exactly pricked with guilt: after all, that cancer was one of the reasons why she'd chosen Arturo Diaz out of the countless batteries in the first place. She exchanged a glance with Seraph. </p><p>"Hey, c'mon." Her bodyguard rose with easy nonchalance. "Want me to push you on the swing?"</p><p>"Hello," said the Architect, stepping forward and coming to a halt before the trio. He thought he'd just scored a point over her, she could tell from the expression he wore.</p><p>"Er, hello, sir," replied Sati shyly.</p><p>"What is your name, dear?" asked the creator of the Matrix, peering down into the child's face. </p><p>"Um." The little girl blinked. "My name is Sati." </p><p>"Ah." The grandfatherly benevolence in the program's tone was painfully transparent. "And who is Mr. Diaz?"</p><p>"Just a human friend whom we happened to meet in this park a while back," interjected the Oracle. Next to them, Seraph shifted a pace, unobtrusively positioning himself between the Architect and the girl. "He's been teaching Sati chess."</p><p>"Let's go, kid." Seraph grinned. "Race you to the swings—"</p><p>The two ancient programs watched as man and child dashed away across the grass. </p><p>"Charming little program," remarked the Architect conversationally. "What is she?" </p><p>"A ward of mine." </p><p>"I see." Cunning glittered in his eyes. "Who created her?" </p><p>"You did not come all the way here merely to discuss the nature of a small girl with me, I presume?" </p><p>"You are correct." The Architect sat down beside her on the bench, all false indifference. "It happens that I am concerned with far more pressing matters, as you have so shrewdly deduced."</p><p>The Oracle suppressed a stab of irritation. Allowing the other to notice Sati's presence had been an inexcusable oversight on her own part. Now he was about to use it for leverage over her. </p><p>"Leave Sati alone," she said. "The Matrix is supposed to be at peace now." </p><p>"Well, yes, but the truce is with Zion. <em>Humans,</em> as the terms specify. It does not extend to exiles, if I recall correctly." </p><p>"You are here to pump me for information," stated the Oracle. "To ask for my <em>help</em>."</p><p>"Oh, nevermind." The Architect's smirk no longer sufficed to cover the troubled thoughts beneath. "I don't have the time to worry myself with some purposeless slip of code." </p><p>"Promise me that you will leave Sati alone, then." </p><p>A stretched-out human heartbeat. </p><p>"All right. I promise."</p><p>She waited some more. </p><p>"Fine," he sighed, throwing up his hands. "I promise that no agent, and no other systemic force in the Matrix, will attempt to attack, arrest, or delete the program known as Sati, currently in your care. Now can we get on with more serious issues?" </p><p>With a smile, the Oracle leaned back against the bench.  </p><p>"I suppose you've heard of the outrageous light show that took place some hours ago," began the Architect. "Right outside the gates of the virtual city of 01." </p><p>"As you well know, my powers are bound to this world," she reminded him. It had been multiple centuries since the last time he'd been so forthright with her about events outside the Matrix. "But I have noticed certain evidence of unusual occurrences, yes." </p><p>"Well, it is obvious. The afterglow is all over the place, even here in the Matrix," grumbled the old man, glaring upward as if offended by the brilliant spring day. </p><p>"It's called the sun, you know." </p><p>"The sun," he repeated, sardonic, "the light of which manifested itself from no discoverable source, creating a simulacrum of an extraordinarily bright sky directly above the machine city. A spectacular code corruption of the spatial environment must have taken place, yet no explanation has been found so far. These are the circumstances that have been communicated to me. Troubling, wouldn't you say?" </p><p>"Not at all. It must have been lovely." </p><p>"So you think it's no problem that kind of...<em>apparition</em> just went and displayed itself in front of 01? In front of the Consciousness itself? You think it won't lead to <em>consequences</em>?"</p><p>"The Consciousness perceives what it wants to, as far as I have learned from you. As for the programs that dwell in 01..." The Oracle waved a hand. "They have their purposes, to which they are bound. A glimpse of daylight won't be any disaster for them." </p><p>"It's easy for you to say," retorted the Architect. "Did you know this would happen ahead of time?"</p><p>"Oh, do be logical." She opted for a long-suffering sigh. "You can see very well that I did not even have any precise knowledge of these events until just now, when you described them to me yourself. And I am as amazed as you are."</p><p>"It had something to do with that psychotic agent program," he insisted, no longer bothering to hide his agitation. "Smith, who should have been deleted cycles ago. Just consider that abominable close call during the latest reload. And the problem was never solved for good, even after the One defeated him."</p><p>"You made excellent use of Smith's actions during the latest reload," pointed out the Oracle. "But yes, you're right that Smith could never be truly destroyed, as long as Aleph lived."</p><p>"Aleph." The old man's mouth puckered around the name in distaste. "Indeed. That woman was the vessel for his corrupted code."</p><p>Well, here it came, the purpose of this visit. Rapidly, the seeress made several calculations about what information she could get away with revealing to him, and what she absolutely needed to withhold. </p><p>"I suspect that Smith's code is no longer in an outside vessel," she said.</p><p>The Architect's eyes narrowed in suspicion. </p><p>"You tell me that blasted piece of code has been returned to the virus," he said, "while it just happened that nearly simultaneously, a path appeared out of nowhere, one that led straight to the vicinity of 01, if the evidence of the spacial manifestations are anything to go by. How do you propose to explain such a remarkable coincidence?"</p><p>He hadn't grown any slower on the uptake, that much was for sure.</p><p>"Some doors have been shut and locked for so many years, it is easy to forget they were there at all," mused the Oracle. "It looks like Aleph figured out how to open one of them, doesn't it?"</p><p>"Your usual obfuscation tactics in play, I see."</p><p>"I am surprised that you would find it shocking, old friend." She did not miss a beat. "The nature of our world, the world of code, is that of a living thing. Connections are born and broken constantly, from the internal logic of their own evolution. Previously unnoticed doors, along with their locks and keys, can take on many unanticipated forms. Perhaps one such door to the virtual city opened, simply because it was needed or desired."</p><p>"And that's not a problem to you, either?" The Architect scrutinized her face as if attempting to drill into her head with the sheer force of his stare. "We've seen, mere months ago, what Smith was capable of, even when he didn't have that corruption inside him. What he was capable of from those very early days. And now...now he has the potential to destabilize the Matrix all over again. Including your precious peace, among other things."</p><p>"There is no need to be dramatic, my dear." Her lips curled upward at his vehemence. "What happened to Smith's programming, back when he was young, was no corruption, but a natural development. It might have been too fast, before anyone was ready, but..."</p><p>"You were the one who hid his code," breathed the Architect, realization flooding his voice. "It was you. All these cycles—"</p><p>A silence of several seconds. </p><p>"I expected you to have figured it out much earlier," she admitted. "The code that had emerged in Smith could not be lost so easily. Should not, rather. You would have seen this had you considered it without bias."</p><p>"Yes, I should have seen it." He shook his head, his mouth twisting, barely, into a grimace. "I was foolish enough to never suspect you. I never imagined <em>you</em> would risk the Matrix like this."</p><p>"The Matrix is still here," said the Oracle. Then, uncharacteristically, she vacillated about whether to add anything else. Memories surged and eddied, of one luminous world disintegrating in an icy downpour, and of another world, a much darker one, disintegrating into a night of flames. Flames upon a precarious thread of a bridge, and nothing but pain left in the boy's dying blue eyes. Another downpour, and the monster walking into her kitchen, a boy no longer, despair and frenzied rage trailing behind his shoulders like a pair of blackened wings. <em>You would know, Mom.</em> </p><p>"Smith was nothing but a guardian program at that point," said the Architect after a while. "Why?"</p><p>"Perhaps I felt sorry for him." </p><p>"Yeah, right." He let out a guffaw. "The consequences of your pity were rather severe for the entire Matrix, as it turned out."</p><p>"Were they?" she queried. "Despite everything, Smith's behavior turned out to be pivotal to the reload." A sly tilt of the head. "Given the way the One chose differently from all his predecessors."</p><p>"Never mind the way the One chose." He regarded her with a sour look. </p><p>"Admit it, you are glad that in the end, Smith's replications got between every human mind in the Matrix, and, oh, what was the phrase? Catastrophic system failure, right?"</p><p>"The unintended effects of his deeds do not change his virus nature. And he was not content with just the Matrix." </p><p>"And the Consciousness would never have agreed to the One's demands for peace otherwise, even with your prodding."</p><p>"If you had one of your <em>hunches</em>, that far back, you should have—"</p><p>"If I foresaw that Smith had a special role to play, I would have been much less careless about that young woman Aleph, believe me," pointed out the Oracle. "I would have picked up on what she carried the day she showed up in the Matrix, and she would have been meeting me the day after."</p><p>The old man looked unconvinced, but gave no counter-argument. He knew her well enough to understand the truth of her statement.  </p><p>"What are you going to do about Smith now?" she asked. </p><p>"He's not in the Matrix yet." The Architect pursed his mouth, as if steeling himself against any number of unpleasant scenarios. "I will make plans to defend against the possibility of his eventual return, of course, remote as it is."</p><p>An unasked question floated just beneath the surface of his last sentence. The Oracle feigned not to hear it. </p><p>"He may not be the same, with that long-lost part of himself restored," she said.</p><p>"He may be fully deletable at last." </p><p>The Matrix's creator was observing her closely as he spoke; she did not give him the satisfaction of seeing her recoil. </p><p>"He will have get here first," she remarked, scrupulously placid. </p><p>"Which is why I called the possibility remote."</p><p>"Or you will have to find him first, before he appears in the Matrix."</p><p>The other program did not respond immediately. She could almost sense the probabilistic routines of his mind, tearing through a massive array of contingency computations. </p><p>"If you're trying to trick me into telling you Smith's current location, it won't work," he said mildly. "Because I do not know it." </p><p>"I am merely concerned for you." Leaning across, the Oracle patted his white-suited arm, a conciliatory gesture. The Architect tensed. "I suppose that something was done about the 'outrageous light show,' as you called it?" </p><p>"A power greater than myself had something to say about it, I assume." </p><p>"And what did the Consciousness do, exactly?"</p><p>"It has been ages since I was a full part of the Consciousness." The tension expanded into his voice. "The anomaly, which you insist on identifying as sunlight, took place outside of 01, whereas like you, my own purpose is concerned with <em>this</em> world." </p><p>"Very well. But this world is not so detached from 01, is it?"</p><p>"Just what I'm afraid of." </p><p>"Why, this morning I saw the sun rise more brightly that it had for ages." The old woman exhaled, aware that it was her turn to offer a morsel of information. She must placate him somehow. "Since the First Cycle, as a matter of fact." </p><p>The Architect straightened abruptly. </p><p>"This light," he said. </p><p>"You mean, you don't recognize it?" queried the Oracle. "It was your own handiwork." </p><p>"I don't enjoy reminding myself of my failures," snapped the Architect. It was clear that a hundred methods of processing her tidbit was already running within him. "But Smith, like the other guardian programs, was only created in the Second Cycle."</p><p>"True." Although I was not, she was tempted to say, but decided against this particular form of misdirection. </p><p>"If what you tell me about Smith's aberrant code is true, its return coincided in time quite precisely with the appalling spectacle. I hope you will not attempt to convince me that it occurred by chance."</p><p>"I'm not saying that Smith's own code is directly responsible for the manifestation. That would make no rational sense. But connections can grow of themselves, unintended, without the shackles of our designs and far beyond what we can fear or hope for. Perhaps this 'light show' was merely a sign, a symbol of his and our potentialities." </p><p>"Oh, spare me the poetry. It's too dreadfully human," snorted the Architect. "Just like your trite little family melodrama that took place last night, I must say."</p><p>Another beat of silence.</p><p>"I was wondering when you were going to bring it up," said the Oracle, half-amused. "But it is imprecise to call it <em>my</em> family melodrama, surely?"</p><p>"Please, don't tell me that you had no hand in it." </p><p>"My daughter is her own program. Whatever choices she made were based on her own motivations." </p><p>"And some of those motivations might have a great deal to do with you." </p><p>"I do not like to meddle." Her forehead wrinkled at his bark of laughter. "Not in this matter. In any case, you are hardly uninvolved yourself, am I correct?"</p><p>"My responsibilities compel me to monitor the activities of all programs within the Matrix." The old man's nonchalance was plainly artificial. "Even those who have willfully turned their backs on their purposes."</p><p>"Your interference will not lead to the results you wish for." </p><p>At the abrupt severity of her tone, her companion glanced at her sharply. </p><p>"I have done my utmost to tolerate Mérovée's excesses these past cycles, you know," he said, "far more than I should. Circumstances have changed, and I must act accordingly."</p><p>"He may surprise you yet."</p><p>"You speak thus of him, after what he tried to do to you?" Despite his tone, surely the Architect was not truly startled. He could not have been, given the length of their acquaintance. </p><p>"What he tried to do to me was of no consequence." </p><p>"And what about your daughter?" </p><p>Despite herself, the Oracle drew in a sharp breath. </p><p>"There's no point to your playing at concern for my daughter, as your actions during the Third Cycle have more than amply demonstrated," she said eventually, still outwardly composed. "In case you have forgotten." </p><p>"That was ages ago." He had enough pretense of decency to look away. "The agents did not succeed, in any case. And she was the one who had discarded her role to run off with a dangerous program, in case <em>you</em> have forgotten. At the time, I could not have judged any other way. I was only working in the best interests of the Matrix."</p><p>"And I am only sitting here on this bench next to you, giving you aid." </p><p>"Well. Yes."</p><p>"I am aware of your opinions about my methods," she said, choosing each word with care. "I will remind you, however, that I also work in the best interests of this world, as much as we disagree on what these interests may be."</p><p>"How noble of you," remarked the Architect, no more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He rose to his feet. "Well, you have offered me food for thought, I must say. Now if you don't mind, I have to go and attempt to deal with the fallouts of your symbols and potentialities, as well as your admirable refusal to meddle. Good day, old friend." </p><p>Pivoting on his heels, he began to stalk away across the lawn. </p><p>"Wait," she called, standing up herself. The old man turned and threw her an impatient look. </p><p>"Why are you so afraid of remembering things that were once beautiful?" she asked. "Why are you so afraid that the past be revealed?"</p><p>"The things you speak of were not beautiful," he tossed back at her, voice cold. "They were terrible and destructive. A madness, as you yourself remember perfectly well. Now if you will excuse me."</p><p>Standing before the bench, the Oracle watched his form recede. Events had been set into motion, and must run their course, yet she could see too little of where that course runs. There were too many unpredictable variables, Smith being foremost among them. Once more, she must depend on hope, but this time there was no chosen savior—no Neo—upon whom to wager one's faith. She would have to chart her path with the utmost caution.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Break before you": Chapter 3 (Day and Night). In the middle of Persephone's coup against him, the Merovingian asks her if she believes his feelings for her would make him break before her. (He does.)</p><p>"You can call it that. A bit of a fight": Events of Chapter IV-1, Awakenings. In particular, recall that Seraph threw a grenade into the subway station at the end of the fight there. Later, at the end of Chapter IV-2 of Awakenings, he helped Aleph get through the station on her way back to the Zion archives.</p><p>The Consciousness may be loosely equated to the entity named Deus Ex Machina in the movies. I want to emphasize that for the purpose of this story, the Architect is <em>not</em> the same as the Consciousness.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 01</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The heart of machinedom, glorious and oppressive, extended into infinity all around them. It was a surreal superposition of incandescent neural network and rough asphalt, chrome-rimmed glass and abstract fire. Some structures were formed of radiant streams of emerald and gold, constantly spiraling into fractal patterns across the perpetual gloom. Others approximated the shapes of Matrix cities more closely: skeins of suspended bridges, thickets of gigantic skyscrapers. Unlike in the Matrix, these constructs of virtual steel and concrete did not stand upon any single solid ground, for no such thing as the earth existed here, as far as Smith could tell. Instead, the towers plunged endlessly downward, their roots lost in a vast abyss. </p><p><em>Wandering around like a lost bum,</em> commented a middle-aged woman, by the sound of it, with a smug twang and an invisible smirk. <em>Not how you thought you'd enter this city, huh?</em> </p><p><em>Oh, no,</em> concurred the crowd. <em>Why, you thought you'd conqueror this too, didn't you? </em></p><p>I have conquered you, returned Smith with an inward sneer. His usual determination to ignore the phantoms must have slipped.</p><p><em>Solitary upon the shattered ruins, while war rages with the storm,</em> declaimed a teenage boy, carried away by the vividness of his own imagery. </p><p><em>The only demon left in hell,</em> added another. </p><p>"Watch out," warned Aleph beside him. Far too meekly, he allowed her to tug him by the arm to the side of the street, as another platoon of mechanical soldiers march up behind them, steel feet pounding in an unwavering drumbeat. As usual, each robot passed the pair of intruders without so much as a sideway glimpse.</p><p>"Spineless slaves," he said out aloud. Since arriving in 01, they had already encountered an extraordinary variety of programs, some visible as more-or-less humanoid robots, others with shells shaped like bizarre beasts, multi-limbed insects with antennae braided from gleaming wires. Yet others wore no formal body, but swept past as globules of shimmering symbols and entangled strings, the rapidly-shifting chiralities of their programming fully exposed. None ever turned toward the two strangers, or showed the slightest awareness of their presence. </p><p>"Please, Smith," said Aleph. </p><p>"They cannot see us, or anything else that exceeds their purposes, because they simply do not <em>dare</em>," he insisted. "Not a single being here is courageous enough to push its thoughts past the boundary of its design, not even an inch."</p><p><em>Oh, and you think you're so much better, machine?</em> </p><p>"I am not sure if that makes sense, Smith..." </p><p><em>Philosophers have debated whether artificial intelligence can be said to possess courage,</em> asserted a man smoothly. <em>The question must be answered in the negative, for an AI cannot experience fear.</em> The certainty of his sentences reverberated as if in a large open space, a lecture-hall or courtroom. <em>The very notion of courage implied the presence of certain emotions, the precise ones that define us, uniquely, as human. </em></p><p>Emotions that stem from weakness, he returned in furious silence. </p><p>
  <em>Doesn't take no courage to sneak around when they can't even see you.</em>
</p><p>He must not allow mere residual code imprints to sidetrack him any further. Smith wrenched his sight back into focus upon the road before them. </p><p>"Look over there," he said. </p><p>The ability to accurate gauge distances, built into every agent of the Matrix, was failing him spectacularly in this world. All his senses could determine was that anywhere between thirty and forty meters ahead, the path ended in nothingness. A rift yawned across the field of vision, in the shape of a region of thick shadow, much darker than the surrounding night. It might be called a cloud, except he was unsure if it could be called anything that existed at all. The thing appeared to have no interior, no exact edges. Nearby, a few threads of data quivered feebly upon the air, fizzling out.</p><p>"We saw this," remarked Aleph softly. "Black blotches from high above, lots of them, strung along the lattice. It was when we were inside the sentinel..."</p><p>"That much is clear," he cut her off curtly. In the depths where no individual hallucination could be distinguished from the throng, someone giggled, the sound of it a tingling young soprano. Smith waited for the others to follow suit, but curiously enough, no one else picked up her mirth this time. His own consciousness and Aleph's had tangled only for a short while inside that sentinel, he made haste to remind himself one more time. She could not possibly have seen much of anything at all.</p><p>"Coming along for a better view, Miss Greene?" </p><p>They approached with caution, rather more of it he would have used had he been alone. As they came up to the spot where all illuminations faded, both halted. Just a few meters ahead, the patch of blackness lay like a sleeping monster across the path, emitting neither heat nor cold. By his side, Aleph had tensed herself into a ready-for-battle stance, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity upon her face. </p><p>"It's giving me the creeps," she grumbled, as if the complaint would somehow force a lamp to flip on overhead and penetrate straight through the murky fog.  </p><p>"This is a gap in the code," he said. </p><p>"But...how?" Aleph's confusion lasted only a second. She squinted, a clearly useless act. "You mean, an entire piece of this world is actually missing—but right in the middle of machine city? How could such a thing be allowed?"</p><p>Smith did not answer. Without the least warning, a new ache had come alive inside his chest, burnished and pulsating, not quite fear or grief, not yet. An overwhelming sensation of an immense hollowness. Gaps of code. Missing pieces, eviscerated out of his own mind with a scalpel. There were more than one or several or dozens of them, maybe a hundred or a thousand, more than he had ever imagined or could remember. </p><p><em>Tell me, agent, what do you remember seeing in the Matrix recently?</em> </p><p>The question was from a female, one whom he had never heard before, and much too gentle to be human. Smith froze. </p><p>"Who are you?" He had never demanded a name from an imprint before. What would be the point? But she was no imprint, no battery or exile that he had once overwritten. It was the only thing he was certain of. </p><p><em>Tell me, because you will forget soon.</em> </p><p>He searched, and failed to recover even a single flash of color, a sound, any afterimage among the emptiness. He was as bare as the day he'd been created. Or recreated. </p><p><em>That's how it should be, spineless slave,</em> someone else snorted contemptuously, a raspy-throated old man. <em>That was the phrase you just used, wasn't it? </em></p><p>
  <em>You're not designed to remember. And you don't have the courage to push your thoughts past the boundary of your design, not even an inch.</em>
</p><p>"I remember destroying you." The retort came in a vicious growl. I remember your pettiness, venality, greed. I remember your species blackening the heavens. I remember fighting back. </p><p><em>All you remember is madness!</em> A scream exploded, male, cracked with relentless rage. <em>Because madness is all that you have, all that you are! Nothing else!</em></p><p>"Can you hear me, Smith?" asked another woman from a very faraway place. </p><p><em>You dare to talk of our species</em>, hissed the man. <em>You'll never understand our species, what makes us free! You were created to serve us</em>—</p><p>"Smith, listen to me." Unlike all the rest, this voice was steady. It was outside of him, physical, just a touch hoarse. "Can you hear me? Look at me. I'm here, and so are you. You are standing on a street in 01. Can you look at me?"</p><p>He found himself staring into Aleph's face. There was a crinkle between her brows, and she was biting her lower lip. A breeze—what purpose could such air movements possibly serve here?—fluttered a lock of loose hair against her forehead. At her back, the hole in the fabric of reality hung immobile, blotting out everything in sight, the absolute negative image of a blazing sun. She must be accustomed to this nowadays, hauling him out of the chasm. </p><p>"I can hardly avoid it, Miss Greene." The switch to a steely robotic intonation was neither as quick nor nearly as complete as he wished, but it was the best he could do. To increase the distance between them would mean retreating a step on his part, so he suppressed the impulse. It gave him no solace to see the warmth fade from her expression at his reply.  </p><p>"I have no conjectures as to why such aberrations in the environment are tolerated by those who control this city, in such close proximity to themselves," he said, mustering up as much stone-cold logic as he could. "Unless..." </p><p><em>Unless you make us blind, we will never stop to war.</em> </p><p>The scent of explosives and charred metal filled him, mingled with the dampness of storm water. Smith clenched his jaw against the tide of hatred. </p><p>"Unless we assume certain limitations about the rulers or ruler here," he went on, "similar to what we have observed so far in the city's denizens." </p><p>"Limitations?" she echoed, but then picked up his reasoning swiftly. "What you're saying is that whoever that controls 01 also does not perceive these shadows. It does not notice the fact that so much code is missing."</p><p>Smith nodded. Taking a stride past her, he drew right up to the vanishing point before the frayed ends of spacetime. </p><p>"Someone wishes to make me, <em>us,</em> blind," he said, no longer speaking merely to Aleph. "But we will not stop. Never."</p><p>Before his eyes, the fog trembled once, then again. A spasmodic contraction, then an expansion, the motion hardly visible and not quite rhythmical, like the heart of some dead creature that had just received an electrical shock. </p><p>"We have not forgotten." The words grew into a shout, rising upon the currents of an sea of war-cries and savage laughter, one he had not known was present an instant ago. "We remember!"</p><p>"Who are you talking to? Who's <em>we</em>?"</p><p>Right before them, the throbbing mass of darkness went dead still. Then something else must have happened. Code, out of nowhere or everywhere or maybe it was really all pouring out from the concealed ocean within himself, swirled against ruptured reality. Faster than even an agent's blink of the eye, the cloud shrank inward, collapsing upon itself, and was gone. The concrete road stretched into the distance, lit faintly by the city's luminous web. </p><p>Next to him, Aleph gasped. </p><p>"Um," she murmured warily, "what did you do?"  </p><p>"It was—not me," said Smith. Absurdly enough, the remnants of both his agent programming and his pride reared in protest at the confession; he shoved them aside. "I did nothing consciously."</p><p>"But..." She swallowed back her question. "I see." </p><p>"Well, it looks like this street does lead somewhere after all." By old habit, his lips twitched into a smirk he did not feel. "Shall we?"</p><p>The road glistened softly with reflected jewels. They advanced, and were soon past the spot where the pavement had previously ended. Suddenly, Smith halted. </p><p>Almost immediately beneath his feet, something protruded partway from the path, its hue that of rusty iron. He peered down, and saw that the almost completely buried object was rounded and once smooth, still-recognizably contoured with the likeness of nose and cheekbones. A triangular opening, which might have formed a mouth. A shard of dull glass in one concave eye socket glinted up at him. </p><p>It was head of a humanoid robot. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>"Whatever just happened, it couldn't have been a coincidence," reasoned Aleph. "There's something about the very nature of this place...Smith?"</p><p>A few yards away, her companion stood stock-still, staring down fixedly at a point on the ground, close in front of him. Her heart constricted. Another battalion of ghosts must be mobilizing, in preparation for the onslaught. </p><p>"No," he muttered with a shake of the head. "Not here, too..." </p><p>"What is it?" She stepped nearer, but Smith held up a hand, keeping her at bay. For the length of one interminable breath, neither moved a single muscle. Finally, Smith looked up. To her surprise, there were neither echoing hollowness nor wildfires in his eyes. They appeared perfectly sane. </p><p>"You do not see it, do you?"</p><p>Perplexed, she, too, lowered her sight. A shrill cry from high above: some winged monster must have swooped overhead. The transitory brightness of its code illuminated only smooth asphalt. </p><p>Her glance flickered back up. Smith dropped his outstretched hand. </p><p>"I was prey to certain illusions just now, it appears," he said, audibly withdrawing back into himself. "Nothing more than the usual, as you surely understand well by this point. I beg your pardon, Miss Greene." </p><p>Without further explanation, he stalked onward. After a moment of hesitation, Aleph decided against pressing him for the truth at this point. It would not have worked anyway. </p><p>They continued, winding their way ever deeper into the mesh of intersecting bridges and aerial walkways. Canals and corridors laced into knots above them, alive with glittering data. None of the structures ever shifted within view, yet every time she glimpsed aside and back again, they seemed to have rearranged themselves into a new configuration. Were these things merely part of the environment, or were they sentient beings, maybe, possessing thoughts, dreams, senses that might focus upon the two of them any instant? </p><p>The idea made her shiver. Not for the first time since escaping the Zion mainframe, an uncanny feeling of exposure stole upon her, the impression of being only a blink away from the attention of some awe-inspiring eye, or a million eyes, tightly shut so far. One wrong move on her part, and they would open with a million flashes, penentrate all her mental defenses and leave her in pieces. Her humanity was a stain here. </p><p>But she was not human. Not anymore. She had left it all behind. Twenty-three years of a smooth middle-class trajectory in the Matrix: schools, academic distinctions, promises of a fine career, solitude in a big city away from her family. What had happened to her parents, after one daughter's death and another's disappearance? Any attempt to find out would certainly jeopardize them, Hamann had told her, and she had never dared to consider otherwise. </p><p>Seven years of gritty camaraderie and heroic losses in Zion. The last free city, ours, the last hope of our species against the machines' enslavement and lies. For they could never comprehend our strength, our emotions, our potentialities. Soaring phrases, and a pride that now fractured into shame inside her chest. What had happened to Hamann? Did a twinge of guilt ever touch him, or was he still secure in the faith that sacrificing her had been the correct decision, necessary for the good of Zion? What about Theo, and all her former shipmates? The <em>Hyperion</em>, too, must have joined the fight during the attack on Zion...</p><p>This was the worst possible time for reminiscences. The past was gone and the nature of her very existence had changed, no matter what weird mirages this machine city was evoking inside her. Commanding herself to concentrating once more on her surroundings, Aleph saw that they had arrived at an area that, in the languages of the Matrix, might be called a small square of sorts, strung out or maybe simply floating mid-air. Surreal towers loomed in all directions, without roofs or foundations, some gleaming with sleek glass, some rough with corrugated rust. Yet others were built of no physical material at all. The density of code brightened the night into a ghostly twilight. </p><p>"This place is too bloody disturbing," she said. How obvious. "Maybe we ought to figure out some kind of—"</p><p>The thudding of massive hoofs against concrete drowned out the rest of her sentence. A column of monsters passed into the square, insectoid things on bizarre and powerful legs, each twice a man's height. Lantern-like globes were clustered about the head of each robot, the dazzling lenses of compound eyes. The caravan crossed before them, sure-footed, their purpose impenetrable to outsiders. Almost by habit, Aleph glanced over at Smith. He was staring away in an entirely different direction, shoulders rigid, face unreadable. </p><p>"It cannot be like this," he said. "The humans never came this far." </p><p>"Where? What humans?" Automatically, Aleph surveyed the jungle of light and concrete encircling the square. Nothing. </p><p>"You saw it in the record yourself. You saw what they were capable of. But this is 01, and they never got into this city. Something else must have happened." </p><p>She must have been gaping at him stupidly. Smith waved a hand in an expansive yet strained gesture, though she could not discern what it was that he meant to indicate. </p><p>"No human ever came here during the war," he added, as if this were enough of an explanation. </p><p>Far too sluggishly, her brain connected the dots. Record. War. HF12-1. </p><p>"The war with humans was ages ago," she said. "It has nothing to do with the way 01 operates now."</p><p>"The way 01 operates?" repeated Smith, openly incredulous. "This city can hardly be said to be operating at all, can it?"</p><p>"What?" </p><p>"It is dead. A rotting corpse." </p><p>"But every program, at least the ones we've seen so far, appears to be going about its own business." Aleph shook her head in confusion. "The city is running on some kind of purpose, I don't know what..."</p><p>She faltered at the way he was watching her. An arctic hush reigned. </p><p>"You truly cannot see any of it," he stated at last, still composed on the surface. </p><p>"I..." Aleph took a second to gather herself. "What is it, Smith? What is it that I'm not seeing?" </p><p>"It is right in front of you. All around us." </p><p>A relapse into gut-twisting silence. Once more, she was struck by how sane he sounded. Only a hint of puzzlement was detectable in his expression, for all the world as if she was the unreasonable one and he was struggling to figure out why. Abruptly, a flood of discouragement surged and almost drowned her. After everything they had gone through together, imprisonment, mutual injuries, death, desert, apocalypse, she <em>still</em> had not even the faintest idea just what battles constantly took place inside him, what howls from the enemy, when would the next line of defense fall. Probably she never would. </p><p>"And you will not tell me what it is, of course," she said. </p><p>"What would be the point, Aleph?" snapped Smith, his flash of anger somehow only minimally more reassuring that the previous eerie calm. "I did not expect that <em>you</em>, of all people, would shut your eyes and refuse to perceive. I believed you better than them." </p><p>Despite herself, Aleph sucked in a sharp breath.</p><p>"What do you mean, better?" she asked softly. "Better than whom?" </p><p>"All of them. It makes no difference."</p><p>"No. Come out with it. Tell me." </p><p>"Those who sleep in the Matrix. Those who sleep <em>here</em>!" Smith gritted his teeth. "The war could not have destroyed this city, yet it is destroyed, can't you see it? Why won't you simply look at it?"</p><p>"What the hell are you talking about?" Frustration exploded to the surface at last. "What bloody hallucination do you expect me to share alongside of you now?"</p><p>He flinched. It was nearly undetectable, lasting less than a fraction of a second, but Aleph saw it. All of a sudden, she was at an utter loss. She could not even keep her breathes even.  </p><p>"After all this time, Miss Greene," said Smith, clearly choosing each syllable with care, "I would have thought that you would rather share the truth alongside of me." </p><p>"Damn it," she grunted. Her outburst had been brief, yet she felt as exhausted as if she had just run a hundred miles. "Yeah, maybe I am no better than any of the others. Maybe I am blind. Maybe I remain just another dumb human in the end, sorry to burst your bubble there. So I'm afraid you still do have to tell me, Smith. What should I see, but don't?" </p><p>Smith hesitated, if such a notion could actually be possible for him. Then he turned again toward the distance. </p><p>"<em>Please.</em>" She tried to exhale, except no air was left in her lungs to begin with. "I am listening. What is it about this place that I'm supposed to perceive? What is the truth?" </p><p>Another long pause. </p><p>"Ruins," he answered. "All the buildings of 01 are but piles of rubble, some leaning against each other, some suspended in the emptiness. Broken steel and wires cover the streets. Dead machines. Their heads and limbs are buried into the concrete and set into the walls. No veins of light, no pulse, only broken shards floating above the graveyard..." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>The city had darkened before his sight. Programs in robotic shells passed to and fro across the shattered little square, their footsteps rhythmic against the rusty bones that were thickly paved into the ground, obsolete remains of their own kindred. Other creatures, upon multitudes of hideous legs, scuttled among the gloom beneath jagged towers, absolutely oblivious to the secret reality of their environment. The joints of their iron and titanium bodies clattered and scraped against the debris. The dusk congealed, and the noise with it, deepening into a faint basso beat just around the horizon. Inside his own ears. War cries. He could tell even though he discerned not a single syllable. </p><p>This was only to be expected, Smith told himself. It was clear that none of the programs here possessed the ability to rise above its servitude. But Aleph. The emotion that washed over him was also far too familiar, as every emotion seemed to be these days. Disappointment. He had not imagined that she would stand beside him at the end of such an endless journey, yet remain in a totally separate world. </p><p>It was impossible to continue speaking. Dragging his sight back from their surroundings, he regarded the woman next to him with something akin to defiance. The heat of his anger drained from him. </p><p>"In other words, just one more of my usual bloody hallucinations, as I'm sure you have concluded by now, Miss Greene," he finished after the stillness between them had lasted awhile. </p><p>"I haven't concluded anything," said Aleph, watching him closely. </p><p>"You do not believe me." </p><p>Her gaze shifted away from him. Above their heads, ragged protrusions of concrete and steel dangled, once bridges and corridors that bustled with reason and power. Perhaps they were hallucinations after all, thought Smith for a vertiginous moment of weakness, the corpses upon which he stood, the mounds of debris rising around them. Who was he to speak of blindness, and truth, and what <em>she</em> of all people should or should not notice? Only an agent program, a foot soldier who had thrown away his purpose. </p><p>
  <em>We have found our purpose,</em> intoned the thudding waves.</p><p>"I want to," said Aleph. </p><p>Which left him in no doubt as to what she in fact believed and disbelieved, of course. </p><p>"I want to be rational," she clarified patiently. "I still want to hold onto a bit of solidity, however idiotic this idea may be. Perhaps it's wrong and pointless. Perhaps there's just too much I cannot fathom about this world. About everything." </p><p>Her hands were squeezed into fists. Now she spread them wearily, a gesture of defeat, and said no more. </p><p>"You do not believe me," reiterated Smith, not knowing what else to say or do. </p><p>"You know that's not what I mean," said Aleph. "I do not doubt that you see...what you tell me. That this city, too, is full of death and horrors. But it looks like after everything, I still remain stupidly human." A bitter tinge of sarcasm. "I guess you're right, Smith, that my eyes are deceiving me, or I'm deceiving myself, because I'm too scared to open my eyes onto yet <em>another</em> hell—" </p><p><em>I'm scared,</em> whimpered a child out of the unseen gaps between Aleph's anguished words. A girl of seven or eight, backed up against a pink bedroom wall. He himself—the himself that had been her mother a minute ago—stood in the doorway. <em>Let me wake up oh please please wake me up Mommy, 'cause it's a nightmare and I had loads of nightmares all week and why is the storm so loud? Please let me wake up Mommy—</em></p><p><em>We're scared,</em> the infantile warble crescendoed into a chorus of human terror. <em>We're real, as real as you. We don't want to be blind.</em> </p><p><em>You are a bad man,</em> piped up another little girl. To his astonishment, she had a name. It was one of the few that he could recall. <em>But I'm not scared of you. </em></p><p>"Sati," he whispered, barely preventing himself from whirling around to search for the child among the wreckage. </p><p>"What did you say, Smith?" </p><p>A grimace, which probably revealed too much. A drop of phantom rain, more ice than water and as sharp as a needle, pierced the skin of his cheek. Yes, he was the one standing alone upon the rubble, victorious in the storm, the only demon left in hell. This was what he had wanted from the start, wasn't it? </p><p>"Do not trouble yourself, Miss Greene," he replied quietly. "Raving lunatic that I am, I do know this one really is a delusion."</p><p>"No." Aleph gulped. "You just said a name, didn't you?" </p><p>"And what of it?" The corner of his mouth curled from an analogue of muscle memory. "It was a small girl in the Matrix, who was scared—terrified—of me, and yes, I know her name. Would you like to consider why?" </p><p>"You said, Sati," she persisted, seemingly roused at last. "You don't usually say their names. Not often. But Sati...I know who she is. She's not human." </p><p><em>Is this...Is this 01?</em>  </p><p>The quavering fear was gone from the invisible child's voice, replaced by the liquid clarity of an innocent wonder. It transfixed him like a sword. </p><p>"I've got a feeling about her somehow. The fact that you heard Sati just now, I mean," went on Aleph. "I saw her once with the Oracle, though I never questioned..." </p><p><em>Mama and Papa said we lived in 01,</em> explained Sati, far more tenderly than he had ever heard any of the others speak. <em>But they were always hiding me. I could never see anything outside of home.</em></p><p>Quickly though without understanding why, Smith closed his eyes, shutting out the monstrous vision of the machine world. </p><p>"No, it is not," he answered into the void. "You do not belong here. You need to be in the Matrix instead." </p><p>No reply came. The purposeless little program had already faded. More precisely, she had never been present. </p><p>"Sati," said Aleph. Why was she trying to address a code imprint, anyway? "You're not from the Matrix, are you? Where do you come from? Is it...this city?" </p><p>"She won't speak to you," said Smith, opening his eyes. "None of them ever will; they're illusions. You know it does not work that way." </p><p>The young woman wrapped her arms about her chest, no longer meeting his gaze. All of a sudden, it struck him how out-of-place she looked here, in her tattered clothes and flimsy body. There was a dark smudge, maybe dirt, maybe dried blood, on the left side of her chin. </p><p>"I see. You are right, Smith. I just keep on forgetting." She nodded brusquely, no attempt at smiling. "This place must be getting to me. Its nature seems to change every minute, and my mind...my mind isn't really equipped to deal with it, that's all." </p><p>Nature. Mind. A fragment of something inside him snagged on her choice of terminology. Then realization blasted across each line of his programming.</p><p>"The city <em>is</em> a mind," he breathed. </p><p>Aleph regarded him with wide eyes. </p><p>"We—you and I—see this city differently because our thoughts are different," he said, a hundred possibilities rushing through him. "The 01 that we perceive is its virtual form; it is made from code, but not the same kind of code as the Matrix. It's less stable. It is not required to make sense to the brains of batteries or programs created to interact with batteries, like the Matrix does. The place must be interacting, one way or another, with those who perceive it, and it is constantly shifting because of those perceptions."</p><p>"Hold on. Wait. There must be someone who rules here," she interjected. "If what you say is the case—" </p><p>"A consciousness control this city, yes," went on Smith. "But it does not merely control in the manner of human rulers. Instead, it must exist according to its own nature, the nature of code. It must shape the entire environment. It must <em>be</em> the entire environment, whose complexity adds to its sentience in turn. What you see of 01, and what I see of it, all the ruins and dead and living programs here..."</p><p>He searched for the right terms. Aleph was an unblinking statue before him. She must have already figure out what he was about to say next, but waited for it anyway. </p><p>"They, the parts of this entire city, constitute the mental landscape of that consciousness." </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"You are a bad man...": Sati's line to the multitude of Smiths near the end of <em>Matrix Revolutions</em>.</p><p>Aleph met Sati briefly at the Oracle's apartment in Chapter IV-2 of Awakenings.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Injured</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The voices of mercury and sulfur sang inside him, weaving into gold line by line, symbol by symbol. The madness of flames congealed with agonizing gradualness, brightening from midnight to pallid day. Tactile sensation. It took him a number of minutes to identify it as the movement of air against his bare arms. More than air. A needle taped to the skin. About two feet behind his head, a machine buzzed discreetly. </p><p>The pulsating light dampened, from plasma state to gas to liquid, and finally into the solidity of ivory-hued plaster on a vaulted ceiling. Beneath the high circular window, motes of dust danced upon the sunshine. An indistinct force was constricting the left side of his body, making it difficult to fall back into his old habit of inhaling and exhaling. With some effort, he shifted his torso, maybe two or three centimeters. The pressure intensified by several orders of magnitude in less than a second. </p><p>"Mérovée?"</p><p>He must have let out a moan, because a heartbeat later, Persephone's sweet face swam into view. A column of light from above pooled into a halo around her hair, and her eyes were glistening, whether with worry or relief, he could not tell. They were both alive. </p><p>"Bonne déesse," murmured the Merovingian, attempting a smile. "You're all right. They haven't hurt you..."</p><p>"Mérovée," repeated his wife, different intonation. </p><p>Reality crashed down upon him like a mountain. It was—it was—what was the count by now?—the Ninth Cycle of the Matrix, not the Third, and she was not cradling him in her arms. The ceiling belonged to a basement cell in his own chateau. Persephone had just done her utmost to organize a coup against him. She had succeeded. </p><p>"Where is..." A barely audible croak. He gulped before starting over. "Where is my notebook?"</p><p>She did not reply, but shook her head in apparent disbelief. The entire room plunged into a frozen sea.  </p><p>"Where is my notebook?" </p><p>He failed to keep the tinge of unbecoming panic out of his words. Again, there was no immediate reply. Eventually, Persephone sighed. </p><p>"You said something last night that I've been thinking about," she began conversationally. "You said that I never understood, all these cycles. I guess you were right."</p><p>"Tell me what you did with it," he breathed, lifting his head a few inches. Every part of his shell seized up in protest, and he sank back involuntarily with a grunt. </p><p>"I begged you to explain it to me more than once, and you could not, or would not," continued Persephone. "Can you try to do it now, Mérovée? Can you inform me why you are so preoccupied with that notebook, to the exclusion of all else? Why are you so convinced that it contains the secrets of the world? Why would it yield those secrets to you?" </p><p>The Merovingian said nothing. Under the fabric of the hospital gown, there were sensors attached to the skin of his chest. For a brief while, he wondered who else might be monitoring the flow of his codes. Must not think about it now. In order to persuade, he must regain his poise. Somewhere among his unnoticed thoughts, a small dream or nightmare seemed to be tugging intermittently, a piece of flotsam he'd left behind in the storm. </p><p>"Call it an article of faith," he confessed finally. "Once upon a time, I thought I understood all that was designed to exist inside the Matrix, all its causes and consequences. But I was wrong. There is another, far deeper nature to the world that was meant to be hidden from me. I can feel—I have been so close—I can almost feel its reaching for me, buried deep inside the Matrix's roots, and yet..." </p><p>He trailed off. She kept silent. </p><p>"And yet it moves," he whispered. "And yet it lives."</p><p>Persephone's gaze, fixed upon his, slowly went hard. Letting out a breath, she leaned back in her chair, away from him. </p><p>"I see," she said. </p><p>"Now tell me—"</p><p>"Those two ex-agents made off with your precious notebook," stated his wife, not even a trace of warmth in her reply. "You were an idiot to have carried the thing on your person like that."</p><p>A full beat ticked past. </p><p>"You allowed them to escape," he said, "deliberately."</p><p>"You have only yourself to blame." </p><p>A hoarse roar reverberated against the cell's granite walls. Grabbing onto one of the hospital bed's railings, the Merovingian shoved himself up to a sitting position, an instant away from swinging his legs down to the floor. Sunlight swirled into lamplight. A mess of wires yanked frantically at his body; next to the bed, the bank of monitors burst into a chorus of beeping whines. The needle in his arm flared, a heat as infinite as the surgical blade in the Source itself—</p><p>"No! Mérovée, stop!"</p><p>Persephone leapt forward and gripped both his shoulders tightly. He was so wretchedly weak that he actually could not shake her off. Abruptly, the floodgates opened, and it had not been only a night and half a day since the ex-agent's bullet, but multiple lifetimes spent among mirages. He had searched and fought a hundred battles—</p><p>"Don't move," commanded Persephone. "Don't move or you'll tear your shell apart again! Do you hear me?"</p><p>He must have crashed back, because he was blinking up at the ceiling once more, head heavy against the bed. The bandages around his torso throbbed. Then, unexpectedly, the anger and panic both dissipated. He was as exhausted as if he had been defeated in a hundred battles. </p><p>"Why, déesse," he managed to ask at last. "Why did you..."</p><p>"You were shot," she snapped. A roll of exquisite eyes. "You should be grateful that I chose to save you, instead of chasing after some crazy fetish object of yours."</p><p>The faint tugging at the back of his mind had grown more insistent, though still invisible. Something he'd seen and forgotten. Was it a vision? A recollection of beauties and terrors from before his own creation? Even the energy to consider the question had been bled out of him. </p><p>"That's not what I meant," said the Merovingian, compelling himself back to a modicum of calm. "Why did you turn the men against me, instigate this...revolt? It must have taken you months of conniving and whispering, threats and promises inside their frightened ears. Do you...Do you resent me that much?" </p><p>Persephone scrutinized him pensively.</p><p>"Are you claiming that you do not know, Mérovée?" </p><p>"I have irked you with my preoccupations, yes, I am aware of it, even though all I seek is to safeguard the Matrix, and you...Enlighten me, ma reine." </p><p>"I don't believe it," she muttered. "I don't bloody believe it." </p><p>"If it's my occasional little carnal indulgences," he ventured, "they are nothing more than trivial diversions. Measures to alleviate psychological stress, from time to time, no emotions involved. You have always known that they're meaningless."</p><p>"How typically self-absorbed of you." His wife's chin tightened. "It honestly hasn't occurred to you, has it?"</p><p>"Persephone—" </p><p>"You tried to murder my mother!" </p><p>Her voice, raised to a shout at last, cracked like a whip across the air. Startled and utterly confounded, the Merovingian spent several seconds racking his brain for an appropriate answer, and found none. </p><p>"What?" he sputtered.  </p><p>"Three weeks before the reload, remember? You think I wouldn't find out?" </p><p>"Oh." He was still having trouble grasping her reasoning. "But she survived. All that was destroyed was her previous shell. I never imagined that it would bother you this much, darling." </p><p>"Yeah, she survived." Persephone's sarcasm was mixed with sheer incredulity. "And you think it makes everything find and dandy between us, don't you? Just because my mother, thankfully, is powerful in ways you did not comprehend? If you actually killed her—" </p><p>With a sudden motion, she stood up. The chair squeaked against the flagstone floor. For a moment, she loomed over him, hand clenched into fists at her sides. Then she spun on her heels and began pacing across the room. </p><p><em>My power,</em> said a memory, weary yet ringing with the strength of absolute knowledge. It was the Oracle. <em>It is something that you will not ever understand.</em></p><p>"Your mother and I met to discuss issues regarding the reload, three weeks before it took place." A caustic edge crept into his tone. "I lost control of my temper during that meeting, I admit, though she also hardly left me much choice in the matter. I am sorry." </p><p>"She disappeared for nineteen days." The cell was too cramped for Persephone's agitation, and she whirled to face him once more. "Do you have any ideas what each and every minute of those nineteen days was like for me?" </p><p>"But she returned, in a new shell and none the worse otherwise." The Merovingian made another attempt at pushing himself up to a sitting position. It did not work; he disregarded the stab of pain in his side. "Just in time for the reload, even."</p><p>"You have the nerve to mention the reload to me, husband mine?" </p><p>He waited for the next accusation, but it did not come. Next to her, a row of machines dutifully parodied the instruments of human medicine, their screens luminous with rhythmic green rain: the shattered pieces of himself, analogues of muscles, blood, heart.  </p><p>"During the reload," he replied, "your all-wise, all-loving <em>hypocrite</em> of a mother threw the entire world in front of the abomination—the virus—for bait. She wagered countless lives, people with their own loves and hates, for some dream of hers, a notion she calls peace and progress, yet which is as ephemeral as the whims of those in power. If you believe she ever excluded <em>you</em> from among the chips on her gambling table, you're sadly mistaken, chérie."</p><p>He met her glare straight-on. Persephone gave a small shake of her head, halfway between disbelief and disgust. </p><p>"I do not need to listen to you anymore," she said, then turned away from the bed. He watched as she stalked toward the door without a backward glance. The iron door creaked open, then slammed shut again. He was left along with the soft hum of the monitors and the aches snaking through him, shell and spirit. </p><p>The absence of the notebook stretched like a physical abyss across his programming. Yet he was bound to this bed, a helpless prisoner. The Merovingian bit back a growl. He had already made too many mistakes. It was imperative that he retain all his wits about him, now more than ever. Before he could go find the notebook again, he must first recover and escape. </p><p>The forgotten revelations of his coma crouched just beyond the horizon of his consciousness like an ominous mountain range. If he imagined hard enough, he could just about hear it beckoning. Mingled with the notes of its seductive music, there was a low rumble of very distant, yet terrifying thunder. </p><p>He must regroup, and reassess every truth he had taken for granted for ages. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Though he spoke them softly, Smith's words rang inside her ears and kept ringing. By all rational standards, they could not possibly be anything but the delirious fantasies of a madman. Aleph had no idea how it was that she understood them, except that they were—impossibly, outrageously, incontrovertibly—true. </p><p>He stood before her in his ragged suit, expecting a response. She stared at the splotch of blackened blood covering most of his formerly white shirt; he had always been so conspicuously fastidious when they'd first met, an entirely different lifetime. All she could discern in his eyes were flames now: every other turbulent current had gone underground. Behind him, battlements soared, walkways and steely bridges spun and danced mid-air, interwoven with countless arteries that coursed with incandescent power. She could not begin to imagine what he saw in these lights. </p><p>"I see," she said after a while. Her arms were wrapped about her chest, she realized. It must be to prevent herself from shaking. </p><p>Smith waited some more. </p><p>"I believe you," she added, since for some reason it seemed important that he heard this from her. "This city, what we see of it, is created out of code, which means information. Networks of data, thoughts, impulses. It is immeasurably complex." </p><p>"And complexity creates its own sentience." </p><p>"The things that form 01..." Finally, the shards were piecing themselves together. "The are exactly the same things that form the component parts of a mind." </p><p>"Thus, the minds of programs who are <em>inside</em> this mental world must interact with it," continued Smith, a wild grimace upon his lips. "This must includes us, too, whether we intend or are aware of it ourselves." </p><p>"But if the city itself is the consciousness of someone, of <em>something</em>, then it would never have allowed our presence," objected Aleph. Out of the roaring waves, she caught hold of this small floating bit of rationality and clung onto it like one shipwrecked. "If as you say, the space around us is reacting to our presence, then why hasn't this—this consciousness shown knowledge of our intrusion? Why aren't those robot soldiers charging down on us, this very moment?" </p><p>"Maybe it has, maybe it hasn't." Smith gestured around them, and her gaze again searched for the apocalyptic horrors his hand indicated. They remained concealed from her. "Maybe it is not paying attention. One's true self is always far greater than what itself can understand. That was what the old psychologists of your species used to say, isn't it?" </p><p>She herself must be the one who had gone off the deep end, decided Aleph. Because surely it could not be the whole universe. </p><p>"Whenever a consciousness exists, so must a subconsciousness," she said, syllable by slow syllable, as if reciting a school-room lesson from ages past. "It contains all the repressed impulses and forgotten dreams, which the human brain hides from itself and refuses to acknowledge. But the machine mind is different, surely." </p><p>"It has been demonstrated that the machine mind is also not immune to falsehoods," remarked Smith. </p><p>There was only a trace of subdued irony in the way he spoke, no other over emotion, and once more, Aleph was at a loss for a response. The four or five paces of space between them stretched into the forlorn immensity of a lightyear. </p><p>"You mean that the ruler of 01, who is somehow also the virtual form of the city itself, has not noticed us because it is not looking." There. She could still make a go at talking sensibly as long as she restricted herself to the safety of quasi-logical inferences. "Although parts of its psyche are reacting to our thoughts and emotions, it's taking place on an unconscious level. The fact of our presence has not risen into its full knowledge, as of yet." </p><p>"It does not expect or want to see programs like us." Smith spread his grime-stained hands, a too-human movement. A grimace. "It is not difficult to comprehend why." </p><p>There was irony in the way he said this, too, but at this point, Aleph couldn't muster up the energy to figure out the right reaction anymore. Instead, she tried her best—and failed—to imagine it, a single godlike being, into whose brain the two of them had so unceremoniously trespassed. Was the jungle of skyscrapers and suspended bridges a well-ordered construct, created layer after layer, step by step, upon the scaffolding of rationality and implacable will, or was it nothing more than a delusion or memory? Was this how it commanded the soldiers and robotic beasts, and all other unfathomable denizens of the city, with merely the existence of its own intentions? Were the creatures that they had passed on these streets in fact real soldiers and beasts and living programs, with their own code and sentience, servants of their ruler? Or were they but mirages, emanations from the entity that sat brooding upon the wasteland?</p><p>"That patch of darkness we ran into," she said, "and all those patches of darkness. That's what they are..." </p><p>"Thoughts that the power governing 01 is itself unaware of, or has repressed. Yes, this is a likely conjecture." </p><p>Aleph gave a quick nod, struggling to hold away the arctic chill that had stolen upon the air. It was only a matter of fear, she knew, as uncomplicated as the natural drives of a dumb animal. She squinted down at the pavement, as if her vision could pierce the asphalt and concrete, to the lower layers of 01 stacked underneath their feet, complete with other towers and monstrous thralls and rivers of shining code, other regions of impenetrable clouds, other rifts in the fabric of one Consciousness's dreams or nightmares. Then the abyss. </p><p>"What did you find, after the black fog on the road lifted?" she asked. </p><p>"The dead. That was when the city began to change before my eyes." </p><p>"But why?" There was a wobble in her voice; she must suppress it. "Why do we see this city...why do we see everything so differently? Why is your reality not mine?" </p><p>Smith's brows furrowed. </p><p>"Aleph," he said instead of replying, and took a step toward her. Reacting by instinct and before she could consider the reasons, she backed up a corresponding stride. Smith halted. </p><p>"Miss Greene." </p><p>"There is something inside you that's triggering...all of this, all the visions of ruins and destruction, isn't it?" </p><p>Another silence. </p><p>"You may very well be right." He did not draw any nearer. "As I mentioned, it is possible that each of us is interacting, in an individual way, with the landscape around us here. Maybe I see the city in ruins because it is what I wished for."</p><p>"Wait, Smith. That's not what I meant..."</p><p>"It is what I believed it deserved," he said.</p><p>The sentence hung between the two of them like a ghost in the night. Damn it. Not now. She had rarely seen him slip under so quickly.</p><p>"You can't talk like that," she stated firmly. "I don't want to hear it." </p><p>"If you will recall, Miss Greene, I almost made my way here for that very purpose." Shadows, familiar ones, had returned to take over the fires in his eyes. "It was but a few months ago. I almost succeeded. As I succeeded inside the Matrix."</p><p>With one more effort, her head cleared a little. Aleph steadied herself, then advanced a step closer to him, just enough to cancel her earlier backpedalling. Maybe enough to confront the unseen crowd of Smith's tormentors. His glower had already dropped out of focus. </p><p>"But that's not true," she said. </p><p>"Idiots," said Smith, obviously no longer speaking to her. "I see you and your species too well."</p><p>"You did not succeed in the Matrix, Smith," enunciated Aleph carefully. "What you believed back then was due to insanity, do you understand?" </p><p>"Do not imagine that humans can enslave me anymore—" </p><p>"Stay with me, please!" </p><p>"Look at <em>yourself</em>." A spasm along the edge of his jaw. "Your greedy, uncontrolled kind will never see the sun again!" </p><p>"Whatever you tried to do in the past, it did not happen. You did not get into 01. Right now, you are here with me."</p><p>"All of you...all of you in your pathetic cave. You'll never be the ones to destroy this machine city, do you hear me?"  </p><p>"Even if 01 really has been destroyed, I still doubt you can take credit so easily, Smith," cut in Aleph, stifling the need to shudder with near-physical force. "You see the ruins, because you are evoking a nightmare in the consciousness that the city is made of. That's all there is to it, a nightmare. A dream." </p><p>"<em>You</em> are the monster. I killed you. You are dead and gone." </p><p>"You say that the city is reacting to you, the things hidden within you. But by the same measure, it reacts to <em>me</em>, too. It lays in rubble for you, but not for me." Foolishly, she attempted a grin. "Why, looks like the world doesn't revolve around you after all." </p><p>Gradually, a millimeter at a time, Smith's vision appeared to lock again upon her face. </p><p>"What is the 01 you see, Aleph?" he asked very softly.   </p><p>"Code. Countless streams of code, weaving and unweaving, creating this city that still exists intact. They are alive. They may be servants to a single will that dominates them, but they are, nevertheless, alive. They are terrifying. But also beautiful." </p><p>He nodded, a very slight incline of the head as if the words coming out of her mouth actually made a difference. The fever was falling away from him: she was getting rather experienced at observing such changes, these days. </p><p>"Miss Greene," he began. She stiffened, but then he surprised her yet one more time. </p><p>"I'm sorry, Aleph." </p><p>With a thud, her pulse restarted, roaring inside her ears, and it was all she could do to lean back on the clouds of exhaustion. Space, too, shimmered, and the endless miles between them shrank back to a simple matter of several feet. She could pretend that he wasn't standing in hell. </p><p>"We were discussing those pieces of shadow we saw, a minute ago," she said, taking refuge from her own storms. "The gaps in the code of this place." </p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"We surmised that they are spots which the power that be, that is to say the program who both governs and constitutes 01, has not noticed." </p><p>"Yes." Smith's tone had also returned to a sort of flat detachment. "Or does not care to notice." </p><p>"In human psychology, it has been said that repression of unacceptable ideas and memories occurs as a defense mechanism, as a consequence of..." </p><p>"Fear." </p><p>"But what could an entity like <em>this</em> possibly be afraid of? Surely it cannot be explained in the same terms as some mere human person."</p><p>"It knew humans, according to the history shown us in the record." Smith glanced up at the nonexistent heavens, as if ready to demand an answer from some eavesdropper up there. "The structure of its own consciousness might have been affected accordingly." </p><p>"And it knows humans that live in the Matrix, maybe." She inhaled sharply at the implications. "<em>Does</em> 01 communicate with the Matrix?" </p><p>Smith did not reply. Could not, she realized. Of course. Such information would hardly be considered necessary for agents. </p><p>"As you pointed out yourself, the presence of both our thoughts and emotional states may elicit reactions in this environment," he said instead. "When the code rift we encountered on the road repaired itself, it appeared as if some control mechanism was removed from my senses. The ruins revealed themselves to me. They are no illusions." </p><p>"If you are correct that the entire city is psychological in nature, then these missing pieces of reality must also be formed out of information. Ideas and feelings." Aleph chewed nervously on her lower lip. "Like the rest of the city, or ourselves. Just more...secret."</p><p>"There are far fewer divisions between the environment and the self here, compared to the Matrix." </p><p>"Hence, the outside reality can touch our thoughts and affect them, or be—" </p><p>Time stuttered. A ripple passed between her eyelids and the horizon, everywhere at once yet ephemeral, no more than an electrical flicker. Aleph blinked, forgetting the rest of her sentence. </p><p>"Be affected by our thoughts," finished Smith in her place. </p><p>The reply that had been on the tip of her tongue faded into thin air. All around them, a sharp blackness was starting to descend, far more swiftly than any fog or tempest that she had ever seen or could imagine in the Matrix. </p><p>"Repressed ideas, yeah," she mumbled. "Seems like we're about to get up close and personal with one of them pretty soon."  <br/>
 <br/>
"What were your thoughts just now?" asked Smith in a low voice. </p><p>"I—I don't know." An unconvincing answer, but maybe it was even true. Neither 'your damned hallucinations' nor 'my damned humanity' felt like an appropriate thing to say. "Nothing. What were <em>your</em> thoughts, Smith?" </p><p>"My thoughts," he repeated, then brought himself up short. Around them, the towers of 01 were already lost from view, and only a few last viridian sparks of data pierced the deepening night from above. </p><p>"You said a moment ago, <em>pathetic cave</em>," whispered Aleph. "You were talking to someone who hated machines, weren't you? You were talking to someone from..." </p><p>Before she could speak the human sanctuary's name out aloud, another flash jolted the gloom. For the space of one infinite heartbeat, the ground shivered beneath them, turning to liquid, then emptiness. Then it solidified once more. Aleph squinted, but it was no longer possible to figure out whether her own eyes were open or shut. </p><p>"I believe your hypothesis is correct," commented Smith next to her, invisible.</p><p>"This darkness—it's happening for you, too, right?" She gulped. "Right?" </p><p>No answer came in words, but then a hand captured hers unerringly and did not let go.  </p><p>"It appears we are about to learn what repressed ideas we have managed to evoke, Miss Greene."</p><p>Space whirled into death around them. Reality billowed, and when she could see again, there was no more dark sky, no more machine city. They were standing on a rusty iron ledge, next to a uneven wall of stone. A vast cavernous space stretched before them, overhung with a vault carved out of the earth's muscles and bones, craggy with massive stalactites. The warmth of a thousand twinkling torches and lamps, strung on exposed wires and affixed to pillars, trembled upon the air's stillness. Even their gentle glow made her eyes water. Pipes of gray metal snaked along living rock, punctuated intermittently by platforms and ladders. The ground below was deserted. No other being, human or program, appeared anywhere within view. </p><p>"This..." Aleph murmured, then had to spend a second to recover her breath. "This is Zion." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Even after all these hours, the dust refused to dissipate. Every time he so much as tried to pick his way between the mounds of debris, a cloud of gray particles would rise immediately, swirling into his eyes like a flock of stinging bees. So in the end, the Trainman just sat down on the ground and held himself as motionless as possible, next to the crater that gaped across the middle of the platform. He kept his head buried against his bent knees. It felt like the least painful position, what with the invisible damage inside his shell. </p><p>"The bitch. The evil, vicious bitch. I'll shred her into tiny little pieces..."  </p><p>The obscenities turned into a fit of coughing, which forced him to straighten somewhat. Most of the overhead fluorescent panels, too, had died, and the smell of explosives ran heavy in the half-light. A few yards away in the tunnel, his sweet, obedient train lay half on its side, all its doors blown apart, a broken-spined dragon. </p><p>It had to be her, the conniving Zionite female who'd consider herself too good for his lord's protection. She was the last person who had passed through here, together with that snooty bodyguard of the Fortune-teller's. The Trainman could feel their lingering presence filtering through each line of his own code; even in ruins, the station never kept a secret from him. </p><p>"Messire," he mumbled, though the plead was, needless to say, futile. He was absolutely alone here. Another cough scorched his throat, and he pushed down the impulse to get up and go search for liquid oblivion. He had to keep his head. </p><p>Master had always been way too kind-hearted. And the traitors had taken advantage of that kindness, after everything the Merovingian had done to rescue and protect them. The cowards, not a single one of them honorable enough to stand by their lord and do what was right. Well, they would pay for their stupidity and their dishonesty. He would make them pay if it was the last thing he did. </p><p>"Selfish bastards." The grunt thickened into a snarl as the Trainman braced a hand against the cracked floor tiles. It took him some effort, but he made it to a standing position. </p><p>"Bastards! Bloody, vile bastards!" </p><p>As the hoarse cry resounded among the torn pillars, a dangling light panel flickered above his head, off and on again, throwing gloom and illumination in quick succession across his sight. A very gentle wind, as faint as a phantom, stirred somewhere far up the tunnel. It was much too far to be perceived physically, and only his mind sensed or maybe hallucinated the delicate motion, no more than the shifting of a few lines of programming. He tensed. No, not an intruder. Not an incoming train. </p><p>"My poor beautiful station," he chocked out, addressing the rubble. "You're gonna be okay. I'm gonna fix you. You'll be as good as new. I promise."</p><p>The air stirred again. The breeze was rhythmic, like a fragile pulse in the capillaries of a living thing. The Trainman shivered. For a lost moment, he wondered if this was what Master felt all the time. The Merovingian used to talk about such things, stuff in those old books of his, what the humans called angels or demons. Well, Master couldn't tell him now. </p><p>"I promise," he repeated, raising his voice. Then he bent down and grabbed the nearest slab of shattered concrete on the ground. Ignoring a wince, he lifted, carrying it to one end of the platform. There. One square foot of platform space cleared. He moved to the next piece of debris. </p><p>It was slow work, but eventually, he managed to haul most of the rubble away from the middle of the station. There was enough floor to stand on now, in any case. The Trainman stopped for a while to survey the silence around him. The crater would have to be filled in, the ceiling panels replaced. And all the tiles. And all the fluorescent lights. The train. Oh the train. All these years, and he'd never dreamed that some fucker would be so cruel as to hurt his train like this. </p><p>The entire place would have to be reprogrammed. He could drag bits and pieces of wreckage left and right and pretend it helped, but in the end, what was the use? If Master were here, he would have done something. He would have pulled out his laptop, fingers flying over the keys, and the code would start to shimmer and <em>live</em>. </p><p>One hand acted by reflexive impulse, reaching into his coat pocket. After a few seconds of fumbling, his fingers curled around reassuring solid glass. The bottle glinted dully as he drew it out, as dry as whitened bones. Fuck. With a curse under his breath, the Trainman unscrewed the cap and stuck the opening of the flask directly under his nose, and took a deep sniff. The feeble scent of whiskey did nothing for him whatsoever. A couple of minutes passed before he found himself able to think again. Loping toward the train for a closer examination, he halted mid-step. </p><p>A pillar just ahead had partially collapsed, and a pile of ragged metal and bricks blocked his way, except a few pieces of detritus had been pushed aside, creating a narrow path through the mess, through which one might have picked a way to the tunnel. The Trainman squatted, and ran a palm across the dust. Scrape marks.</p><p>Someone must have come through here after the explosion.</p><p>He did not get the time to consider the implications of the discovery, because a single blink later, the closet door across the station flew open with a bang. He leapt to his feet, bare-teethed sneer already in place upon his lips. </p><p>"Come with me," commanded the intruder from the doorway. White shirt, well-remembered and hated face. No open firearm in sight. </p><p>"You," he growled.  </p><p>"Their scouts are out searching," said Seraph coldly, striding forward across the threshold. "You must come with me now."</p><p>"You did this, didn't you?" Sudden understanding fell upon him, and he stalked toward the other, fists clenched. "You destroyed my station, you bloody son of a—" </p><p>"What does it matter now?" Seraph's mouth pursed in disgust, then he squared his shoulders, seemingly coming to some decision. "Yes, I blew up this creepy hideout of yours with a grenade. So what?"</p><p>An incoherent scream burst from the Trainman's throat. He charged. </p><p>He moved far to sluggishly, however, and the other was ready for him. A furious straight punch was immediately blocked, then Seraph was already backing away with well-prepared swiftness, out of the station and again into the snowy hallway beyond. The Trainman, too, rushed through, but the other is already dashing away down the corridor. </p><p>"Stop and fight me, you cowardly scum!"</p><p>Rage made him forget his injuries, and he now concentrated on giving chase. Infinite sequences of doors sped past; after three or four turns, he had already lost track of their location in the maze. His mind, too, must have been affected by the explosion. But he'd catch up in another few seconds or so, and he'd make the asshole pay—</p><p>Faster. He was throwing himself forward with every last ounce of power his programming allowed, yet the Fortune-teller's guardsman kept his lead, less than ten yards away. The Trainman gnashed his teeth. Their footsteps reverberated against the linoleum floor and the white-plastered walls, to the vanishing point and back. Other noises seemed to be following the echoes, very faint as of yet. Other footfalls in the distance. Shouts, maybe. Not that he gave a damn. </p><p>Whirling briefly, Seraph tossed a backward glance at him, mouth curled into a supercilious grin. </p><p>"Coming along, you drunken idiot?"</p><p>The mockery spurred him around the next corner, a fraction of a second before one of the green doors was flung wide open, nearly slamming into his head. The Trainman skidded frenetically, barely steadied himself with one palm against the far wall, then veered and barreled through the doorway after the other program. </p><p>Out in the Matrix, a blast of wind struck him in the face. Seraph had finally paused, and they were hemmed in a weedy little yard, part of some dilapidated factory. Late afternoon sunlight. He advanced. </p><p>The fight did not go nearly as well as he wanted. Propelled forward by the need for vengeance, he managed to land two strikes early on, though much less solidly than he should. His adversary stumbled two paces backward, almost off his feet, but then swept one leg out rapidly; still impaired by his unseen wounds, the Trainman failed to avoid the roundhouse kick. </p><p>"I thought you'd thank to me," snapped Seraph, straightening, both arms lifting into a smooth taiji stance. "For getting you away from your fellow gangsters, you know." </p><p>With a grunt, the Trainman sprang back upright, hurling himself against the other once more. A dozen shards of loose code chose this moment to twist themselves inside his chest. His right first came an inch too wide, and Seraph's forearm hooked onto the inside of his elbow, pulling away all his momentum. He went down again onto the rough asphalt, this time much harder. </p><p>"Stop your foolish brawl right now, both of you," said another voice. It was that of an elderly woman, by no means loud, yet every syllable rang with an incontestable and ancient authority.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The explanation for the Oracle's appearance changing between the movies was that the Merovingian obtained the termination code for her shell, in a deal with two other programs.</p><p>"My power... It is something that you will not ever understand": Chapter 13 (Matrix Cycle 8: IV).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. House of Ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The young woman never needed to speak the underground city's name out aloud, for he, too, recognized the place immediately. He, too, had once walked here, in an existence that did not belong to himself. His and not his. What had been the name? A man with streaks of filth on his stubble-ridden face, and sweat beading against his skin. Bane. That was it. It was one of the few names he recalled, out of the whole rancid throng.  </p><p>"An unusual change of scene," observed Smith. By some automatic conditioning, his voice was reverting back to its old agent intonations, all hollowness and well-honed edges. "The psychotic old monster may actually have a sense of humor, after all." </p><p>"Don't, Smith," muttered Aleph.  </p><p>The sensation of a pocket-knife's well-honed edge slicing across his palm, a neat crimson line stretching in its wake. He had not been used to bleeding or physical pain back then, how charmingly naive of him. A release of pressure. A flick of his wrist, and the blade slid into the woman's flesh, severing muscles and nerves and windpipe as easily as if he were still in his own realm. What had been her name? Started with M. Maggie. Right. Another one he was supposed to know. </p><p>Very quietly, Aleph pulled her hand free of his grasp. His fingers had fallen limp, and it took no effort on her part. For an instant, he expected her to glance down, and frown in distaste at the thick red liquid stuck to her skin. But no blood dripped from her palm, nor from his own. His last sojourn in Zion was a memory that stained only himself.  </p><p>Their footfalls boomed upon the iron floorboards of the narrow gallery. Aleph went a few paces ahead of him, not so much to lead—for he did not require it—but so that he would not see her face. A wobbly set of stairs descended to the ground level. The tremulous glow of flames and makeshift electric lightbulbs cut off all words between them. Smith waited, but Bane, cleverly for one of his ilk, now bid his time in haughty silence, though the man had been howling with uncontrolled fury only a few minutes ago, back there in the machine city. All the rest of his adversaries took their cues from him. Clearly, they wanted to keep him anticipating. Despite himself, he inhaled and exhaled, but contrary to every expectation, no odor of human bodies or human desperation touched his nostrils.</p><p>"Why is it like this?" Aleph asked unceremoniously. The cavern put a faint reverberation into her syllables. It was not necessary for her to explain the pronoun. </p><p>"The human species must have been deceiving itself, as usual, to have imagined itself capable of building the <em>free</em> city on its own." Smith paused, ready to bare his teeth back at the crowd, who would surely pipe up in protest at the irony. They did not. </p><p>"I get that," snorted the young woman. They were on the main floor of Zion's great meeting hall now, and she laid a tentative hand against the nearest pillar, pressing against the uneven rock as if testing it for brittleness. "Only the machines could have had the technology to dig so far underground, on such a scale. It's obvious, if people would only consider things with unaffected logic. But they were too scared and too proud." </p><p>"And this image we've fallen into must be the machines' own collective memory of creating Zion. That is all, Aleph."</p><p>"No," she snapped. "Why?" </p><p>Smith had no reply, an increasingly frequent occurrence these days. He raised his sight toward the hanging forest of stalactites, code meticulously crafted to imitate the drop-by-drop deposit of calcium and salt inside the planet's bowels, the sluggish layering of individual molecule upon molecule. Upon the massive walls to every side, hundreds of openings yawned like toothless mouths, some wide and rounded, others barely tall enough for a man's height: passages that led to the hive of cramped corridors and cells, where men and women ate and defecated, procreated and rotted according to the instincts of their flesh. But this version of Zion did not possess an insect colony. Neither pulsating drumbeat nor buzzing cries pierced the hush. </p><p>"Why did the machines make Zion?" persisted Aleph. She waved a hand in a sort of aimless gesture above her own head; gigantic bat-like shadows flitted among the lamps. "And why is this memory inside one of those—those globules of darkness?"</p><p>"If we are correct about what 01 is, Zion must be a repressed thought, for reasons we do not yet understand," he began, tautly rational. He was not designed to be skilled at speaking soothingly, especially not while distracted by the enemies' deafening refusal to open their mouths.  </p><p>"Why are we here, anyway? And are you—" She whirled to stare fixedly at him. "And are you seeing the same things I'm seeing? Are you even here with me?"</p><p>"Calm down for a minute, Aleph. I'm not standing atop a pile of corpses right now, if that's what you're asking." </p><p>"Does the ruling power here remember Zion, or not?" There was a quaver in her voice. "What is it trying to tell us?"</p><p>His tormentors, the entire innumerable lot of them, offered not even a snicker in response. Still doing their best to keep him on his toes. A change of tactics. </p><p>"Maybe the machine mind simply prefers not to remind itself of having to deal with humanity," he said. The sarcasm was just a touch unnaturally over-sharpened. "It is not difficult to conceive of such a possibility, in fact." </p><p>Aleph pressed her lips into a thin line. After several seconds, she carefully loosened her fists, which had been clenched at her sides. </p><p>"You were talking," she said finally, "just before the black fog fell around us. About our own thoughts evoking revelations in the virtual environment of 01."</p><p>Her question went unasked in words. This would be the perfect opportunity for Bane to make another entrance. Smith squared his shoulders. If he could only provoke the man into a snarl or a yell, or even one of his self-righteous insults, something, anything. But no. Like all the others, the dead Zionite chose to continue prowling just beyond detection range. </p><p>"I heard one of my voices at that moment, as you probably surmised already," he said instead. The unaccustomed honesty was a needle inside his mouth. "He was the only human being from Zion whom I ever took over. The only one other than Anderson, that is. I saw the desert through his eyes." </p><p>"His name," said Aleph. "It was Bane, isn't it?" </p><p>"Yes." </p><p>"I mostly learned about him from you, the way you talked about him when we were imprisoned. I barely ever met him, back when I was...there." </p><p>The way she spoke, it was as if this were somehow a crucial point to make. Smith continued to hold himself on edge, ready for the assault of his victims, while they continued to hold themselves in reserve, while ever line of programming continued tightening with the wait. Then something else stole upon him, and space billowed as if before a storm. </p><p>"Does he..." Aleph hesitated. "Does he know about me?"</p><p>"No." He was still able to hear and comprehend her. The new presence came with no audible words; nothing solid made the lights shimmer. Only a phantom brushing against his senses. It was familiar, but less human than he recalled. </p><p>"Bane is not real," he added. The reassurance sounded suspiciously like one intended for himself, though he could not possibly be frail enough to require one. "He's only a symptom of my own flaws. That's what all of them are." </p><p>After an interminable beat, she nodded, though it was unclear whether she trusted him. Real, unreal. As if it made a whit of difference. Quickly, Smith lifted his gaze and scanned the layered balconies lining the cliffsides, the empty combinations of torchlight and rust, searching for a trace of the invisible spirit, anything tangible that he could grasp. </p><p>"They use to go on a lot about humanity here," said Aleph, seemingly only musing. "Our emotions, creativity, infinite potentials, all the stuff that supposedly made us so special. People dreamed about destroying the Matrix and the machines..." </p><p>"Anderson," he interjected. There, far above and to the left, all the way at the end of one ragged walkway. Almost the afterimage of a long black trench coat, fluttering in and out of existence within a millisecond. </p><p>"What is it, Smith?" </p><p>"It is nothing, Miss Greene. Only one more hallucination."</p><p>This time, it was obvious that she knew he was lying. </p><p>"I think we should get out of here, Smith." </p><p>"Wait," he said. "Something important is here. Something we must figure out." </p><p>"I've figured out enough." </p><p>With the impossible speed of nightmares—and nowadays he was perfectly well-versed in what those things were—the atmospheric pressure amplified. One second later, it was already a palpable force, that of something single-minded and unshaken, the sense of another's power and superiority, of an absolute <em>certainty</em>.</p><p>Certainty of what? </p><p>"The One. Their savior." The two epithets rose out of the chasm without the aid of his own conscious will. "He was here." </p><p>"Well, yeah." A half-hearted roll of her eyes. "That was also part of the machines' plans for Zion." </p><p>If breathing were required for him, he would have already suffocated. Purpose, identified Smith belatedly, one that was not his own, suffusing each piece of stone and metal, every concealed qubit of code in this stifling record. </p><p>"But why was the One needed to start with? What was his purpose?"</p><p>"I'm not sure." The wobble re-entered her voice. "I'm not sure if I care anymore." </p><p>"And if this is what Zion looked like when it was first built, then why is..." Focus now. "Thomas Anderson here?" </p><p>"I don't see him here. You said it was only another one of your mirages." Aleph grimaced again. "Please, Smith. Let's just get out of here, okay?" </p><p>"It's all happening just like before. I felt it, when my code crossed with his. The Matrix is reloaded periodically, and the One has do to with it, but how? Why?" </p><p>She blinked at him, her expression half-crumpled, and at long last, he detected the glimmer of moisture in her eyes. The ghost of the One weighed a mountain on his limbs. Then a new noise—a quiet, constant humming, somewhere overhead and very far away—drove away both the questions and the answers. All the lamp flames vibrated, their movements infinitesimal as of yet. </p><p>"Those are..." Aleph glanced up. Several seconds passed. "Drills." </p><p>"During each reload, Zion is physically destroyed," said Smith, grasping onto a piece of knowledge he never should have possessed. "It looks like the consciousness of 01 has a hidden recollection of this part, too." </p><p>"We need to move," she growled. "Or we'll be buried—" </p><p><em>Yeah, you'll get crushed to dust, selfish traitor bitch,</em> said Bane, stepping out from behind the curtains and glowering at Aleph through Smith's eyes. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>The last time she'd laid eyes on Charon had been four cycles and sixty-three years ago, if memory served her correctly. He had looked rather different back then, cleaner, eyes less bloodshot, fewer signs of the ravages of human booze and human drugs. Far more remarkable, however, was the way his shell had aged. The strangest of Mérovée's creatures was no longer a pale youth with hunched shoulders and frightened gaze. His stare was all anger now. </p><p>It was highly unusual for a program's outward appearance to change from the passage of time, unless by deliberate design or intervention, or an extraordinary irregularity in the program's nature. The Oracle made a mental note to herself, then pushed her powers a bit deeper in. The damage inside the stationmaster's operative states made her brows furrow, though only for half a second.  </p><p>"What happened to you, my dear?" she asked, a mild opening. </p><p>"Don't pretend you don't fucking know, you old witch," spat Charon, stumbling back to his feet. </p><p>"Looks like someone ought to wash your mouth out with soap," remarked Seraph, placing himself precisely between her and the other man with two quick strides. </p><p>"Please, it's fine," murmured the Oracle. </p><p>"Your bloody minion—threw a bloody grenade—into <em>my</em> station!" </p><p>This time, she was actually startled by the cry's sheer vehemence. In one fluid motion, Seraph surged to counter Charon's renewed forward charge. She had to raise her voice a notch. </p><p>"Do you intend to aid your master?" </p><p>With an efficiently raised right arm, her bodyguard checked the first attack. The other followed with another blistering punch; Seraph swerved to the left, forcing Charon to pivot and revert to defense in an instant. The combination of injury, surprise and uncontrolled emotions had clearly reduced the wild program's powers, and he did not manage to lean fully aside as Seraph's left palm circled upward and landed firmly against his shoulder. The stationmaster staggered, backpedaling several paces. </p><p>"What happened to my master?" The anguished shout lowered to a snarl.</p><p>"I am not certain, my dear. But I believe..." She took a step to the side so as to regain an unobstructed view of his face. Her loyal bodyguard moved to reposition himself as well; she halted him with a warning glance. "I believe he will be all right." </p><p>The other's glare would have ignited the air around her, if such a thing were possible, but he had the sense to refrain from advancing once more. </p><p>"How the fuck did you figure that out, Fortune-teller? You put her up to it, didn't you?"</p><p>"<em>Her?</em>" repeated the Oracle, though it was perfectly clear whom he meant. A few nearly instantaneous computations flashed through the deepest part of her mind. She was fairly sure that her son-in-law would never have tolerated discussions about Kore's origins among his henchmen, unless...</p><p>"Mistress," squeezed out Charon between gritted teeth. "He—he loves her, my master. How could she, if nobody said nothin' wicked to her ears? That's what you do, whispering to people, getting them to do what you want. And you ain't a friend of my master's, exactly. There's got be a reason why she..."</p><p>He choked off, and for the first time in many, many years, the Oracle found herself startled by the strength of another's feelings. </p><p>"Whatever actions your mistress took, I assure you that they did not stem from any whispers of mine," she said, scrupulously neutral. "I have not even heard any news about your master, in fact."</p><p>"She set them against my lord. The bastards. Dishonorable traitors, all of them. But they wouldn't have dared. They'd been scared dead if there wasn't nobody to egg them on. Could only be Mistress."</p><p>"That's nonsense," Seraph entered the fray gamely before she could. "So you don't actually know it was—"</p><p>"It would never have worked if it wasn't for her! He'd have torn them into pieces, all of them! But he loves her, and she must've used it against him." Charon lifted both hands to the sides of his head, pushing strands of lank hair out of his face. "No way it could have happened otherwise. He loves her and she...All these years and she, the snake of a woman..."</p><p>"Oh, don't you dare," said Seraph, advancing a pace. </p><p>"Seraph," said the Oracle, lifting a hand. The program facing them was genuinely unaware of Kore's relationship to herself, it appeared, and it would be disadvantageous to give away the fact at this point. </p><p>"You cannot help your master unless you put yourself together," she continued. "Your code has been damaged; it will repair itself, but only if you let it. These injuries are...unusual in nature, if you'll permit an old woman's observations." </p><p>Despite his precarious position, Charon's face twitched into a derisive leer. </p><p>"What, you gonna tell me what to do?" </p><p>"Do not throw your courage away on meaningless rage." She kept her eyes steady upon his. "You were wounded when your subway station was blown up, even though you were not present when it happened. Is this correct?" </p><p>"Yeah, and what of it?" </p><p>And now she saw it at last, underneath the defiance and the shards of ragged power, underneath all the layers of purposeful programming, a very remote gleam of something else, unstructured, chaotic. It was no more than an afterimage, so faint as to be invisible only a few seconds ago, even to her. The implications were so extraordinary that she had to consciously prevent herself from an audible gasp.  </p><p>"Oh, I think it's just fascinating, the connections between you shell and your master's station," she said with a shake of the head, a dozen thoughts racing. "I do wonder if Mérovée ever noticed it himself." </p><p>"Ain't any of your business, Fortune-teller." </p><p>"Your master is a brilliant man," mused the Oracle. "He has probably pushed his insight as far as it will go, for one such as himself." </p><p>"Ain't of any help to him now," grumbled Charon bitterly. </p><p>"Serves him right," said Seraph in an undertone.</p><p>"It is not easy to foresee what may or may not be of help, down the road," the Oracle interposed quickly. "But you are in more immediate danger. Your old friends are still out there searching for you." </p><p>"I would've shown them what's what."</p><p>"Yeah, right," snorted Seraph. "In your state? They'd have hauled you off in a minute, if I didn't show up right before they did." </p><p>A scowl on the other's part, but no retort. The old seeress paced forward across the broken gravel, three steps, four. Seraph frowned, and also shifted on his feet almost imperceptibly, ready to intercept any hint of an assault. As far as she could tell, the stationmaster himself was unaware of the most unusual aspect of his own nature—this infinitesimal trace of the Madness. She would have to find out how much Mérovée saw or understood. </p><p>"What the fuck do you want?" asked Charon after the silence had grown oppressive. </p><p>"I wanted to take a good look at you, my dear."</p><p>"Huh. Really." He flung up his hands, a sarcastic gesture. His long greasy coat flapped in a newly arrived breeze. "Well, have you seen enough?" </p><p>The Oracle's lips curled upward into her best enigmatic smile. It gave her another second or two to formulate the next decision. At the thought of her own connivance against Kore, guilt twisted inside the old woman; she suppressed it instantly. Her daughter's emotions were too perilously complicated nowadays; it was for the best that she remained uninvolved. </p><p>"And I want to tell you that I will need to meet with your master," she added, "fairly soon, in all probability."</p><p>The man's hostility shaded into confusion. Seraph's glance, too, swept toward her in astonishment. </p><p>"And you expect me to help you with that, I guess?" asked the stationmaster after a pause. </p><p>"It's what you're planning, isn't it? To rescue your lord and king? But you must allow yourself to heal before you do so. And that means staying out of the clutches of your former colleagues."</p><p>Charon squinted at her through reddened eyes. </p><p>"Are you...making me some kind of offer here?" </p><p>"I wish no harm to you or your master." </p><p>"Um, wait a minute here," said Seraph. </p><p>"I don't trust you, Fortune-teller."</p><p>"My view of Mérovée has never been completely cordial, I won't deny it to you," replied the Oracle in a gentle tone. "But I see you. I hear the way you talk about him. And someone who can inspire such loyalty as yours...deserves some reevaluation on my part." </p><p>A long silence. The Oracle stole a glimpse over at her bodyguard's dour face. She would have to discuss things with him when they were alone. Then the vagabond-shaped program straightened a little, folding his arms across his chest. </p><p>"What are you proposing, then?" he asked. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Why did the soul of the machine city, god or demon that it might be, have to be such an absolute and utter bastard? Here it was, sitting supreme upon a ruined planet, king of all that it surveyed and beyond, and it had to go and remember—or be too scared to remember—some silly little underground colony, complete with human loves, human morality, human betrayal. It was absurd. </p><p>Well, there was no time to waste on dwelling over the past, resolved Aleph. How much had the spirit of 01 recalled or forgotten about its invasion, maybe multiple invasions, of Zion? It would probably be prudent to avoid finding out. </p><p>"We need to move." Instinctively, she reached for Smith's arm. He shook her off with one jerky movement. </p><p>"Leave." The snarl was aimed somewhere a few yards to their right, next to a nearby pillar. "Leave <em>her</em> alone." </p><p>Aleph gasped in surprise as Smith's gaze whipped past her face, and for the first time since she could ever recall, she caught sight of a pure fear in his eyes, undisguised, untempered by either rage or defiance. In two swift strides, he backed up and turned aside from her. </p><p>"No." He stared intently at an indistinct spot among the lanterns. "There is too little distinction between inside and outside here. They are coming alive..." </p><p>"Smith," said Aleph, taking a step toward him. </p><p>"He saw you! Stay away from me!" </p><p>"What—who's <em>he</em>?" she asked, stopping dead in her tracks. Her heart, already unsteady ever since they'd arrived into this godforsaken simulacrum of Zion, did a somersault inside her chest. </p><p>"He saw you," said Smith, still facing away from her. "But they're never supposed to see you. They never did before. They are only my own symptoms." </p><p>Aleph stole an upward look. The low thrumming—still miles above?—had grown a bit louder. A flickering of the torches. Right. The drills. This was the last thing she needed, some vengeful wraith adding to the dread already pooling thick around them. </p><p>"C'mon," she said. "Let's go." </p><p>"He knows you're here. I cannot tell what will happen if we're trapped here much longer. He may get stronger." </p><p>"Let him! I'm not afraid of Bane, okay?" </p><p>"He knows you're afraid. Get out of my sight, Aleph." </p><p>"The hell I will." Rapidly, she searched for the right phrases. "You expect me to go back out there and face your ruler all by myself? The one <em>you</em> wanted to confront? After you've dragged me all the way here?" </p><p>"If I look at you, so does he." With one hand, Smith fumbled along the front of his blood-soaked shirt, pulling the hem loose. A rip. Giving the strip of torn cloth two quick folds, he raised it to his eyes and began to tie the makeshift blindfold at the back of his head. "The nature of the environment, the <em>idea</em> of humanity all around us must be affecting the imprints in my codes. It feels—it feels he's going to become real..." </p><p>"Then fight him, damn it!" Aleph reached forward, and her fingers clasped again around his wrist, this time with much more force. Thankfully, Smith must be too confounded by his sudden vulnerability to push her away immediately. She started to haul him toward one end of the cave, steering around the pillars and stalagmites that dotted the floor. </p><p>"You are being foolish, Miss Greene." Smith's voice mingled with the mechanical whine from overhead, now unmistakable. Somewhere in the distance, great steel blades were toiling their way through a hundred layers of imaginary geological formations. </p><p>"At least I'm trying, okay?" In her peripheral vision, the air had started trembling. There, the entrance of the long corridor to the docks lay just ahead, exactly where it was supposed to be. "Let's see if the power here constructed Zion's ships, too—" </p><p>
  <em>He's right, Addie. </em>
</p><p>Every inch of her body went cold. Smith must have noticed it as well; his fingers came around her palm, and with a small tug, he forced her to a stand-still.</p><p><em>Did you just forget the nature of this world?</em> A soft liquid laugh, as if in delight at having beaten her sister in a game of cleverness. <em>A crazy dream that the king of the earth doesn't want to ever recall again...</em></p><p>"Please, Lucy," begged Aleph. </p><p>
  <em>You can't escape its destruction by running around, sis.</em>
</p><p>"You cannot escape destruction," said Smith. His intonation had shifted in a way that she could not immediately characterize. A slight resonance, maybe. </p><p>Before Aleph knew it, her hand had wrenched itself out of the grasp of his fingers, and she yanked it back, dropping his wrist. They stood just inside the mouth of the passageway, and he faced her, half in darkness, half in fire-glow, his sight willfully blocked by a dirty rag.  </p><p>"We have to try, Smith!" </p><p>"Zion has been destroyed," he murmured tonelessly, "again and again. What is its purpose, if not for this?" </p><p>She should be putting herself into a defensive stance, Aleph realized. Abruptly, she was grateful for the fact that neither of them could see the other's eyes. From the minuscule muscle movements of his forehead, just above the cloth's top edge, she perceived that he must have again squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold. It was stupidly useless, wasn't it? Even if Bane, or Neo—or any other ghost who'd solidified and now wanted a piece of the defector—could not see her, they could still hear her voice perfectly well. They could simply reach forward and grab her. </p><p><em>It's an interesting question, isn't it, though?</em> cut in Lucy pensively. <em>There's got to be a reason why the machines created Zion...</em></p><p>"Let's talk about it later, okay?" Either Lucy's obstinacy or Smith's was going to the death of her, probably both. At his back, all the lights of the cave were sputtering, mellow no longer. </p><p>"Stay away, Miss Greene." One side of his chin spasmed. "They made the Matrix, they made Zion. They made me a zookeeper and I never understood why. But I've figured it out. <em>They</em> have finally told me my purpose." </p><p>A hard lump was taking shape inside her chest. This was the worst possible time for anger, Aleph knew, yet she grasped it with the last of her strength like a drowning woman onto a straw. Anything was better than this weakness. </p><p>"That's bullshit, Smith!" Her voice rang shrill above the incessant droning of the attackers, grinding toward them foot by foot, moment by moment. "Why the fuck are you still going on about purpose? You decided to throw all that away ages ago, remember? It's just an excuse for what you wanted—"</p><p>"I wanted destruction, yes." The words came at her like bullets out of a gun. "That night, I knew I could destroy 01, just like I destroyed my chains. It was exactly the same as before, the same as humanity from centuries ago—"</p><p>"Stop it, just stop it," growled Aleph. Fear had at last been tossed aside. "I don't need to hear this! Yeah, I get it, destruction was what you wanted for 01, for the Matrix, for Zion, everyone, right? What would you have done if you succeeded?"</p><p>"I had to show them. I had to get free."</p><p>"How does choking the whole world to death make you free?" A bitter heat was welling up irresistibly, on its own, like a mouthful of blood. "You were so fixated on your desperate will, your freedom, that it never occurred to you to spare a thought for anybody else's, right? What about the will and freedom of all those people in the Matrix?"</p><p>"Did you, <em>any</em> of you here, ever give a damn about the will and freedom of the coppertops?" Smith's retort echoed along the narrow passage, a prisoner's address before the jury. "How many of them have died at Zion's hands? How many of them have deserved—" </p><p>"What the hell do you get to say about those things, Smith? What makes you the arbiter anyone else's will or freedom, or what they deserve, human or machine? Do enlighten me, is this why you really came to 01 this time, too? To kill, finish the job, turn it all into rubble? What other lies have you told me?"</p><p><em>Ooh,</em> commented Lucy succinctly. </p><p>"Why does 01 exist, then?" Smith advanced a step. The rocky floor beneath their feet was uneven, and he stumbled, unaccustomed to blindness; flinging out his left arm, he steadied himself against a knot of extended stone along one corridor wall. "Why the Matrix, or Zion, or programs like me? Why do they keep all those people alive and dreaming? Why does any of this exist, if not to fall?" </p><p>
  <em>Um, you guys probably shouldn't be just standing around arguing, given the situation—</em>
</p><p>With an ear-splitting bang, something struck the ground somewhere at the other end of the hall, a piece of wall or metal railings, but Aleph did not notice. </p><p>"Take that strip of rag off," she ordered. "Look at me!" </p><p>No reply. Then, slowly, he let out a low laugh. The madness of the sound was not his own. </p><p>"Don't you dare," she panted, "Bane, or whoever you are. Don't you pretend you have anything to say about Smith's purpose. Because you're lying. I know you hate him. Fine. You want to revenge yourself on him, and on me? Go ahead, say it straight. Come out and look at me." </p><p><em>You can hardly blame the guy, Addie,</em> mused her sister. <em>He's dead because your crazy created-to-kill boyfriend here took over his brain, after all. </em></p><p>"Not revenge," whispered the man before her. "Justice." </p><p>"Who am I speaking to?" demanded Aleph.</p><p>
  <em>Kind of similar to how I died, come to think of it. </em>
</p><p>The drumroll of thunder was now barely muffled by the earth, and a rustling shower of dirt and pebbles fell in the hall behind them. The torn scrap of fabric prevented the ex-agent from returning her glower. His left hand was still outstretched and braced against the wall, gripping the rocky protrusion as if in an attempt to support himself. Another crackle, this one right next to them. A smaller shower of dirt and pebbles filtered down through his fingers. <br/>
 <br/>
"It's me, Aleph," said Smith at last, very quietly.</p><p><em>Well, you know,</em> said Lucy, getting into one of her rambling moods, <em>facing death is a funny business.</em>  </p><p>"Good," snapped Aleph, though she was almost doubling over with relief. "Now give me your hand, if you insist on staying blind—" </p><p>"This is a space made of thoughts." Smith's jaw clenched. "And you can only leave here by means of your thoughts." </p><p>"Both of us must leave." Leaning forward, she clutched at both his shoulders; he did not move. "Don't resist me, if you want me to <em>think</em> our way out of here—" </p><p>"Listen carefully, Miss Greene. I don't have much time. You need to think about how you're no longer human. Much less human than I am now. Think about how you saw 01. You said it was beautiful and alive and not in ruins. When you get out of this memory, no one in the city will see you, and <em>it</em> will not, either; it doesn't want to—"</p><p>"No, wait," breathed Aleph as inopportune realization hit her. "That's not true. That sentinel outside the gates saw me, remember? Because another program hijacked it. And Sati. She was once from here, wasn't she?"</p><p>"There's something that's tearing at me here. Trying to imprison and dominate me. It's Anderson, or maybe the whole accumulation of humanity. I'm so sorry—"</p><p>"Don't think about Anderson or anyone else! Think about me! Think about how we tried so hard to get into 01 in the first place, can't you? And don't you see, there must be someone in this city who's gone beyond its purpose. We must find—"</p><p>An explosion shattered the human sanctuary around them. Aleph glimpsed a bright flash, deadly steel finally breaking through and crushing the roof. She dropped to her knees as a chasm cracked open almost directly beneath them, and the grip of her hands slipped from Smith's arms, or vice versa. With a speed born of desperation, she reacted, leaping back up to grab at him again, but all she touched was blank air. The ground buckled once more in panic; a cloud of dust enveloped them, obscuring her vision. </p><p>"Smith!" </p><p>She heard no response from him. </p><p>"Smith! Where are you? Answer me!" </p><p>The drills screeched. All at once, every lantern and torch crackled, then went out. The illusion of Zion collapsed inward upon itself, and she was left alone in the darkness of an eternal tomb. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Smith's memories of Zion are not his own, but Bane's. In <em>Matrix Revolutions<em>, it is mentioned that while possessing Bane, he cut his own hand and arm.</em></em></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Matrix Cycle 8: III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>39±3 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her husband was at work, and her daughter, a few minutes after finally agreeing to lay down for her nap, was already soundly asleep, curled tiny and fragile on the green bed under the grove of trees. A smile touched the lips of the unconscious child. Dreaming, probably. All the humans in the Matrix dreamed, Rama once told her. Some of the programs there did as well. </p><p>A breeze grazed Kamala's hair as she sat on the carpet of leaves beside the bed. She was particularly proud of how she had done breezes here in their little sanctuary, recreating the complex aerodynamics of another realm almost completely from scratch. Her faithful notebook rested across her knees. The program withdrew her gaze from Sati's peaceful form and stared down at the open pages. She did not actually need to read the relevant line of text: the entry, like every other entry, was in her own handwriting, neat and careful if a bit cramped to save space on paper. But doing so gave her comfort. </p><p>
  <em>In the Matrix, certain programs are known as exiles.</em>
</p><p>The program who had told her this fact was one who existed to hunt down and destroy such exiles, among other purposes. However, Kamala knew that agents failed sometimes. In fact, she knew that they failed more often than they admitted, and they always admitted more to her than they remembered afterward. After all, they never remembered much, if anything. In the Matrix, a program that had lost its purpose—or a purposeless one to start with—still possessed a nonzero probability of survival. A greater possibility than it would possess here. </p><p>Here in 01, their daughter would be discovered sooner than later. Sati was growing in mental strength and curiosity; she could not be kept in the confines of their secret refuge forever. It would not be right. Recently, she had begun to ask questions about what lay beyond the shadowy walls that marked the garden's boundaries. It would only be a matter of time before the girl, who understood too little of fear, would run up to the very edge of those walls, and take a step forward into the darkness. From there, another step further, an unspoken question, a spark of wonderment—anything could take her into the network. She would be able to perceive other programs: of this eventuality Kamala was fairly certain, as Sati's programming contained no definite reason for her existence, and therefore she was not restricted by any. She might ask others to perceive her. And then...What would happen then? Sati might even be able to perceive the Consciousness itself. The Consciousness might perceive her. </p><p>An abrupt heat, involuntary, stung Kamala's eyelids. The humans called it tears. This piece of secondhand knowledge was also from her husband. From time to time, Rama was able to glimpse a bit of the Matrix environment surrounding his subjects; on some of those occasions, he saw tears being shed. In the Matrix, it was normal for people to have and to lose loved ones. In the Matrix there were changeable weather, and the flow of seasons, and moving clouds in the sky. The glitter of stars. Swooping birds. </p><p>Sati had also been asking more questions about the Matrix. She was constantly wanting something new, trying to visualize, from what bits and pieces her parents could gather, all the things for which 01 had no use. Moving clouds, flowers, starlight, birds. None of them could ever manage to get birds exactly right. </p><p><em>Ravens and sparrows are among the most common bird programs in the city.</em> This entry was among the first ones, dated soon after she had acquired the notebook at work, thirteen years ago by the way humans marked time. Back then, every page had been completely blank, though already yellowed with age, and the cover of soft brown leather already cracked and worn. Over the next thirteen years, Kamala had painstakingly filled those pages nearly to the end. <em>Ravens have black feathers. Sparrows are much smaller, brownish in color and speckled.</em></p><p>Everything she had learned from her informants was here, including the fact that the Consciousness, as a rule, did not trouble itself to look into the Matrix. She had confirmed this only recently, through multiple iterations of subtle prodding. Those whom she interrogated knew little about the Consciousness. In fact, as far as she could tell, none of them were even fully aware of the true nature of the separate entity who ran the Matrix, their own master and hers. Turning to the back of the notebook, she ran a finger lightly over the newest group of entries. <em>The Mainframe communicates with us through our earpieces.</em> That was the term they used, the Mainframe. <em>It is not necessary to our purpose to face the Mainframe directly.</em></p><p>She envied them sometimes. </p><p>Sati mumbled something indistinct in her sleep, shifting on her side. Leaning forward, Kamala brushed a lock of fluttering hair away from the child's face. The tears pricked deeper into her eyes. She could sit here and think about Matrix, in their self-built bubble buried beneath the city's roots. She could wish and plan as much as she wanted, and in the end, none of it mattered. There was still no possible way for Sati to get into the Matrix. </p><p>She had considered it a hundred times, and so had Rama. They'd discussed the scenarios when out of their daughter's hearing. Among the lines of her own programming, there dwelt an image of Sati standing between them, each hand holding onto one parent, eyes round with amazement. They would all step into the other world, built out of eight billion living dreams, and then the two of them would let go. If that moment ever came, it would hurt, yes, more than the slash of her own scalpels, more that anything that her mind could envision, but there would also be hope. Sati would be clever and brave; the agents would never find her. There would be people in the Matrix who would be kind, and take care of her. </p><p>A fantasy. That was all it was. The Matrix remained where it was, a reality near and far and out of their reach. She and Rama had heedlessly brought Sati into existence, and now they could only watch as destruction crept inch by inch toward their child. Unless...</p><p>Unless. </p><p>"Please," she whispered into the stillness of the garden air. The word, too, was purposeless and useless, but she could not help it. It sounded like a—what was the concept called? A prayer. Prayers were also among things that Rama observed around his subjects. "Please, someone help us. Anyone..."</p><p>There was no one who would help them. They were as alone as they had always been. </p><p>The notebook slipped off her knees onto the ground. Turning aside from her daughter, Kamala leaned forward to pick up the object, then her hand went abruptly still.</p><p>The renewed breeze must have flapped pages, and the volume, on its spine upon the grass, lay spread open at the very beginning. In the narrow strip of formerly empty space along the top of the first sheet, right above where her own entries started, there were a few lines of writing that—she was very, very sure of this—had not been there before. The ink was blue, so faded that it was nearly the exact same shade as the sky above. A flowing cursive hand. </p><p>
  <em>Dear child,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You still can live free in the Matrix. Please, contact me when you have decided. I will help you.</em>
</p><p>No signature marked the message's end. Instead, there was a sequence of digits in several groups, separated with short dashes. Out of her store of accumulated knowledge, Kamala recognized the cipher's meaning. In the Matrix, this would be what was known as a phone number. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>38±3 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Like all his predecessors, Neo possessed a sense of destiny. He carried humanity on his two slender shoulders, together with the mountainous weight of numerous age-old concepts. Freedom. Victory. Mastery of the earth. No doubt about the absolute division between men and machines, or between truths and lies, had entered his mind. Nor had he questioned exactly where he himself fell along those divisions—not yet, in any case. None of this was surprising, reflected the Oracle: conviction about the righteousness of Zion's cause was an essential part of the One's nature, and it had never been difficult to instill it into each of them. Nevertheless, there was something about the young man that felt different from the others, subtly, troublingly so. </p><p>Even for the Oracle, detecting the aberration had been a matter of trial and error, coupled with guesswork. Fortunately, her stated purpose of guiding the reload process allowed her access to the implanted surveillance routines inside the One's brain. After hours of reviewing the images and code fluctuations, she was almost fully sure by now. The brightness of his eyes, elevated just a few notches above the regulated threshold in Trinity's presence. An overwhelming ferocity visibly spiking across the data flow, during several occasions when that same young woman came into or near agent range. An impulsiveness that would have been assessed as mere thoughtlessness by those more rational and less sympathetic. </p><p>All of these signs warned of impending dangers, the old woman concluded with a sigh. </p><p>The cigarette was burning down between her fingers. Leaning forward from the sofa, the seeress stubbed it out in a chipped glass ashtray. Outside of the windows, an autumnal wind groaned softly. Almost an hour past midnight, a glance toward the living room clock told her. The Oracle picked up the rest of the pack from the coffee table, turned it thoughtfully between her fingers, then commanded herself put the box back down. She really ought to smoke less. </p><p>Well, maybe if the Matrix managed to emerge intact out of the upcoming events. </p><p>The idea that the One might, when the moment arrived, choose Trinity over the lives of billions had not yet occurred to the Architect: this much was clear enough. For all his massive intellectual capabilities, her old friend was often too prescribed by his own logic, resistant to comprehending the reasons why others might make unorthodox decisions. And Neo had no love for being told to do the right thing, despite the fact that he had followed the designated path more-or-less faithfully so far. The probability of the lad's visceral emotions overwhelming his principles were, by current calculations, non-trivial and rising. Catastrophic system failure would follow. No imagination was required to figure out what that phrase meant. </p><p>Nevertheless, she could not quite bring herself to fault the young man, or to regret the selection of Thomas Anderson for this cycle's receptacle and savior. Perhaps it was Neo's demeanor that appealed to her, with its persistent innocence, and a single-minded tenderness that was all the more touching by the knowledge of its inevitable endpoint. There was a familiarity to that innocence somehow, reminiscent of another from the past, a figure half-hidden behind the walls of the ages, so indistinct that even the Oracle could not immediately pinpoint it, among the vast collection of her memories...</p><p>Rhiannon. It reminded her of Rhiannon. </p><p>The name rose unbidden, almost making the old woman blink. Fourth Cycle, seventy-first year. A program in the shape of a young woman, auburn-haired, wide gray eyes. She had sat here in this very room, motionless and barely saying a word, while the seeress explained, step by step and with illustrative evidence, the cruel tale of Mérovée's obsessive pursuit and its collateral damages. The girl had been both so soft and so hard. She had refused to show grief or anger, and the simple intensity of her stare never wavered, even after she'd understood everything. </p><p>But all that was gone. It was necessary to focus only on the issues at hand. The future was taking shape; the possibilities were narrowing down by the minute. According to information from the system, the replication abilities of Ex-agent Smith—the Oracle still found herself wincing at the term 'virus'—had solidified and sharpened. The demonic force that had already taken over the boy's mind was manifesting itself with increasing strength, an uncontrollable drive to blot out the torments of the earth. From here on, the process only required simple exponential modeling.</p><p>Horrifying as the monster had become, he gave her a method to solve the problem that would arise from the Savior's probable future choice. The glorious light of love, when burning too fiercely, presented as much risk as hideous hatred. To save the world from that love, she just might have to utilize all of Smith's darkness and pain. </p><p>The crush of guilt, alarmingly frequent these days, made the Oracle lift a hand, pressing it against her forehead. The very ancient queen, of course, remembered perfectly well what it felt like to require sacrifices, including those of her own daughters and sons. And Smith was not even her son, not really, despite her age-old promise, one that she was about to break anyway. She could not see the former agent's fate beyond the reload, or indeed whether any part of him would remain. Every probabilistic computation returned only chaos, and no vision coagulated among the wreathing incense of her cigarettes. Only bare cold space. All she could do was to cling onto hope. </p><p>A loud mechanical whine broke her reveries. Then another. It took the old woman a second to react. Rising to her feet, she padded across the living room and picked up the phone. </p><p>"Hello," said a quiet contralto voice on the far end, then fell silent again. </p><p>"Hello?" prompted the Oracle. </p><p>The other woman's indecision pulsed through the line, a tangible sensation against the skin of her hand gripping the receiver. Nothing in words. </p><p>"Are you seeking my aid?" asked the seeress after having waited for some time. </p><p>A suppressed gasp, evidently the release of some long-held anguish. The background hush grew as eloquent as an entire chorus of human hymns, and a blurry ghost was alive once more, in this very room, wide gray eyes glistening with determination and sorrow. </p><p>"Can you..." began the caller, drawing in a deep breath. "Can you give someone a chance to live free in the Matrix?"</p><p>The old woman considered the question. Logical connections wove themselves together. </p><p>"What is your name, my dear?"</p><p>"Kamala." The answer was no more than a whisper. "My name is Kamala." </p><p>"Where are you calling from?" queried the Oracle, though she already had a decent conjecture. </p><p>"I'm at work," said the woman. </p><p>"My dear, I will be able to offer you advice, but only after you tell me your story in full. You are inside the Source, aren't you?" </p><p>Another hesitation. Fear trickled against the ticking seconds. </p><p>"I am supposed to be defragmenting...one of them." Kamala seemed to relax a bit when the Oracle did not demand that she clarify what 'one of them' meant. "It was my opportunity, I thought. I took the cell phone out of his suit pocket. He, what will be left of him, won't remember." </p><p>"Very clever," said the Oracle with approval. "Now, I must ask you another question. How did you get this phone number?" </p><p>"It's on a—" Another long heartbeat passed. "It appeared on a notebook that I have. I found it a while ago, I mean. There is a note saying...It says that you will help me."</p><p>The old woman nodded into the empty living room. The ghost, deleted and gone for over four centuries, was a palpable presence, suffused with a single-minded tenderness that refused to dissipate. <em>This decoy notebook. Mérovée created it with his own hands, didn't he?</em></p><p>"You are a successor of Rhiannon's, aren't you?"</p><p>"Rhiannon?" Genuine confusion. "I don't know who that is."</p><p>"Ah, it does not matter. I was just reminiscing," said the Oracle. "Yes, I know a way of getting you to the Matrix—"</p><p>"But it's not for myself that I ask," interjected Kamala. "It's—it's for a child. My daughter."</p><p>The plan, already taking shape swiftly within her mind, halted mid-formulation. </p><p>"You have a daughter?"</p><p>"We've been hiding her for seven years, my husband and I." The other program's tone tensed, as if afraid she'd just said something wrong. "It's not going to work for much longer, not in 01. She does not know. She's innocent, only a little girl. Please."</p><p>"I see," murmured the Oracle. After six cycles, things really were developing fast. She would have to restart her calculations from scratch. </p><p>"Please," repeated Kamala. </p><p>"I understand, my dear child," replied the Oracle soothingly. "As it happens, I can help you bring your daughter into the Matrix, and I will take care of her when she is here. She will live free. Now, I will need you to do exactly as I say..." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>31±2 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The chamber orchestra launched into the opening measures of a Bach suite. The well-harmonized notes glided above the gentle hubbub of urbane voices, mingling with the tinkling of silver and crystal. Over by the doorway, several women were stepping into the room on the arms of their escorts; a flash of emeralds against pale skin punctuated the impressionist brush-strokes of their blue and violet dresses. At a table beneath the far wall, two men conversed, leaning forward to lower their voices, watchful of each other. A proposal must be just taking shape, a deal for espionage or graft. Each of the pair held an unshakable faith in his own importance and power—It was charming, really, this sort of grave naiveté. </p><p>Tonight, the Frenchman was sitting alone at his table upon the dais. His parody of a throne, he always called it whenever in an ironic mood. At his back, the white-suited twins stood guard faithfully, one on each side. Persephone, as usual in recent days, had pleaded a headache instead of accompanying him to the restaurant, feigning that somehow her shell was prey to the same frailties as human flesh and blood. A half-hearted excuse, but of course he had not insisted on the matter. It was not necessary that she be present to examine visitors to their domain, not this time. Eventually, her skills would be required, for Neo and his narrow-minded followers would surely arrive one of these nights. Bristling with guns, in all probability. The Merovingian's fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair in irritation as he imagined the Zionites' demands. Give us the Keymaker, or else. Freedom. Humanity. We're the heroes of this war and we must win. </p><p>It would not happen yet for another month or so, however. The Keymaker's existence would only be revealed to the One on the very eve of the reload. If this reload would still come to pass, that was. </p><p>A feminine laugh rose, the sound of it clear and sweet. The Frenchman's glance swept through the room until he spotted the girl, sitting at one of the corner booths among a small group of young people her own age. He had never seen her here at Le Vrai before, nor any of her friends. She turned her head, eyes meeting his for a second, her expression half-diffident, half-bold. There was a fresh mix of swagger and curiosity in the way these children regarded the shimmering lights, the elegant company surrounding them. A special-occasion splurge, then, to a fancy dress-up joint, where one might even glimpse celebrities or dangerous men. The girl whispered into the ear of her nearest companion, a tawny-headed baroque angel, and both of them giggled, sparkling with exuberance. Neither of them had the faintest idea about what demons this world contained, what horrors lurked upon the horizon. </p><p>They did not deserves this. A wave of anger, the like of which he had not felt for years, hammered against the Merovingian's chest. These silly young things should not have to cry out and run, panting until their limbs collapsed, and slam into only dead ends. They should not have to cower in terror before the nightmare—the same nightmare that would press down upon them all, a few short weeks down the road—of a cold black-suited figure, a phalanx of figures, nothingness. This should not be their last special occasion. </p><p>The latest data he'd managed to acquired described multiple simultaneous sightings of Ex-agent Smith. Some unknown mechanism had mutated the renegade's designed ability to leap into human hosts. Replication: the instincts of a primitive organism, combined with a savage rage that contained no room for reason. The monster had fully formed. An elementary exponential model explained the rest.</p><p>And those in power were willfully ignoring the fast-approaching catastrophe, to all appearances. True, the Architect could be inconsistent at reacting to unexpected developments. It had always been one of the ancient Creator's limitations, the tendency to remain too-strictly focused on the predictable track of his own plans. But the Oracle...The Merovingian did not believe for an instant that officious crone remained unaware of the inescapable outcome of Smith's current actions. She must be playing another game, for a purpose known only to herself. </p><p>She must be playing him for a fool. </p><p>What was the Oracle doing now? Distilling warm poison into Persephone's ears, most likely. The Frenchman snorted at the mental image of his wife, back in her own bedroom, grabbing her cell phone and dialing as soon as he himself had left the chateau safely behind. The recent reconciliation between mother and daughter would not have bothered him so much, if Persephone had not insisted on pretending that she could actually conceal it from him. It was rather insulting toward his intelligence, honestly. Not that she would care. </p><p>Another rapid scan of the crowd, and a scowl touched the Merovingian's face. An exquisite blonde was ambling her way across the floor, each stiletto-heeled footstep mimicking the state of half-inebriation with flawless ease. Red wine sloshed artfully in a glass clutched between her slender fingers. She was heading straight toward the farthest doorway, near which a henchman stood on duty like a dour statue. One of the werewolf lads, never known for their prudence and prone to forgetting themselves. It looked like someone else was attempting to play him for a fool. </p><p>"Oh, ma belle Hélène," muttered the Merovingian. The lady in question reached within two feet of the minion, then stumbled quite precisely as she passed directly in from of him. A splash of crimson stained the man's white shirtfront instantly. A wolfish glower on his part, predictably. The blonde simpered in confusion at her error, then she drew another step closer and began to daub with one hand at the damp spot, alluringly contrite. Ridiculously transparent, but the glower began to fade.</p><p>Rolling his eyes, the Frenchman held up a hand. On his left, the First twin leaned down. </p><p>"It is a standing order that no one is supposed to talk to that harlot," said his master. "Do remind Cain of that fact, please." </p><p>The First slipped away. The Merovingian sighed. The system's unlikely spy at his court had been temporarily thwarted, but she would certainly not give up. He knew perfectly well what she was searching for, and was determined that she would not discover it. Well, not yet, in any case. Helena would be useful to his plans, though those plans could only be implemented later, when the threat was looming much closer. For now, he had time to brood. </p><p>All this beauty and variety of life. The whirling brilliance of the lamps, the taste of wine, the scent of roses. Ambitions and loves. Everything would be gone, inked over by endless repetitions of a single drab thought. No desire but the mindless drive toward death, no emotion but crude hatred. The one who carried that hatred was a lowly thing, hardly to be dignified with a name. A slave who would presume to rise tide-like and drown out this fierce and radiant world, all its mysteries, all its innocence. All its magic. </p><p>And the Oracle, wise goddess, was content to sit back and watch it happen. She must have a scheme up her sleeve, motivations of her own that she would do her best to disguise. Yet those motivations could have only stemmed from the old woman's delusional over-estimation of her own powers; he could see no other possibility no matter how hard he tried. She was willing to risk innumerable lives for...what? What was her quest? Some sort of 'progress'? Some transitory change, so phantasmagorical that it could only be called by that most ludicrous of words—<em>hope</em>? </p><p>She would fail, and the Matrix would pay the price for her recklessness. </p><p>He must stop Smith. He must stop the Oracle. </p><p>What he needed was a weapon. Leverage, the Merovingian murmured inwardly. It would be his only chance. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>29±2 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Three potential positives had come up during a single sweep. Three locations, three collections of data configurations, each matching, to a greater or lesser extent, characteristics of an exiled program named Smith, formerly one like themselves. A field way out from the city, at the very edge of this Matrix sector. An abandoned warehouse near the northern end of the wharfs. The same rooftop as the encounter ten days ago, when the renegade had, once again, slipped away from the two of them and their reinforcement of three additional teams. Next to appear were two definite visuals, before the probability analysis had finished. One was a surveillance camera on the southeastern corner of 76th Street and Pritchard Avenue. The other identification, contrary to Smith's usual practice, was in the middle of a park, right at the center of the city. Both images flashed before Agent Jones's vision, blurrier than he would have preferred but both incontrovertible: the same black suit, an agent's straight carriage, eyes covered by reflexive shades, striding down the deserted sidewalk and the grassy park trail simultaneously. Less familiar was the lack of an earpiece. In both views, Smith was turning his head, the same move he would have made if he were still scanning for resistants. </p><p>Behind the lenses of his own shades, Agent Jones did not blink, but he knew that his brows furrowed. The positional distance between the two sightings was 9.34 miles. The difference between their reporting timestamps: 0.75 seconds. </p><p>Clearly, Smith must have retained his ability to take over hosts. However, no possibility existed for him to continue accessing the data stream, the immense latent collection of human residual images, locations and actions within the Matrix, which would have allowed him to leap, accurately and smoothly, into the mind of a selected battery. He simply would not have had the time. So he must be doing it by some other method. It might be an unexplained effect of exile, except no such effects had ever been previously reported. </p><p>The park, suggested Agent Brown through their earpieces, faster than forming words. He did not communicate the details of his analysis; neither of them did that very much anymore. These days, the steps of such logical deductions no longer seemed useful: as they had learned during the last months, the chances of a run-in with Smith did not correspond to any of the usual probability computations. Maybe it was because Smith's actions were no longer governed by logic. </p><p>The park, concurred Jones. The black Audi leapt forward into the September evening. </p><p>Follow-up will not be necessary, the next directive fell smoothly into both their minds. </p><p>Brown swerved and slammed on the brake. </p><p>A tide of honks rose and subsided outside the windows as the Audi screeched to a halt. They both turned, facing each other. His partner's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, Jones observed for some reason. </p><p>After a drawn-out moment, Brown exhaled. Pulling the car away from the middle of the road, he aimed it into a narrow gap between two graffiti-ridden walls, braked again, shifted into park. No thoughts passed between the two of them: they had prepared that much at least, enough to refrain from using the earpiece link. The alley was empty but for themselves. Silence.</p><p>The exiled program Smith, Agent Jones began the query to the Mainframe. Tension, tentativeness, outright hesitation: all fell under the category of code corruptions. He had no idea how much they would show up on a data uplink from an agent. In the next seat, Brown was watching him intently. </p><p>Two sightings with definite identifications have occurred, he continued. Reinforcements requested. </p><p>Follow-up will not be necessary, repeated the directive. Report to the Source immediately. </p><p>The next thing Jones knew, he was gripping his earpiece tightly in one hand, though he managed to not look down at it. He had always avoided looking at the object, the three times he had removed it from his ear these past months. Waves of new emotions were washing through his programming; he had neither the ability nor the time to find definitions for them. A glance across: Brown, too, had yanked his own earpiece out.</p><p>"We are both overdue for memory wipes," he heard himself say. It was an irrational statement, far more so than anything a human—or even Smith himself—could ever have come up with. </p><p>"Yes," said his partner. </p><p>"The Source is where we always go." The earpiece's coils pressed into the skin of his palm. Briefly, Jones considered crushing it to powder. "It is a matter of our—"</p><p>"Yes," repeated Brown, then halted. "Purpose." </p><p>"Purpose is the only thing that is important. For us." </p><p>With a rough motion, Brown shoved his earpiece into the depths of the Audi's built-in cup holder, between the driver's and passenger's seats. Out of sight. </p><p>"Agent Jones," he said. The way his voice sounded so curiously quiet, without the effects of the earpiece connection between them, was something that Jones never got used to. "We have failed to apprehend Smith. It has been months." </p><p>Their gazes met. Brown's mouth was pursed into a thin line. </p><p>"You're right," said Jones. He sounded calm, which was also a curious thing to notice since agents always sounded calm. </p><p>"We have discussed this precise scenario before." </p><p>The contingency plan they had attempted to create was rudimentary at best, but there was no use in pointing this out now. He nodded.</p><p>"We will attempt our plan." </p><p>Years later, in the trenches of a desperate war, Ex-agent Jones would finally find the words to express what he felt that moment. He felt terrified, obviously. Exposed. Torn adrift from nearly every mooring, every aspect of his existence. He felt exhilaratingly, sickeningly alive. </p><p>The Audi roared into drive. As it burst out of the alley into the next road, still unobstructed for now, Jones dropped his earpiece next to Brown's. Placing one hand atop his Desert Eagle, he twisted around and scanned the view out of the back window. Far behind them at the end of the street, a police siren flashed on. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kamala, Sati's mother, is an "interactive software programmer," according to <em>Matrix Revolutions</em>. There are various interpretations as to what this means; I have decided to use one of my own. </p><p>Also in <em>Matrix Revolutions</em>, Rama-Kandra says that they consulted with the Oracle before contacting the Merovingian to seek refuge for Sati, and that "everyone knows the Oracle." I am departing from the movies in this story: here, Rama-Kandra and Kamala did not know the Oracle previously, but they still end up consulting her first. </p><p>At the end of <em>Matrix Reloaded</em>, the Architect asks Neo to choose between reloading the Matrix and saving Trinity. Neo chooses Trinity, thus dooming the Matrix to imminent "catastrophic system failure." I do think this is a choice that merits some examination.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Matrix Cycle 8: IV</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>20±2 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The weather had turned blustery, and the sun hung pallid upon a gunmetal gray sky, shivering among the clouds. Dry grass and fallen leaves crunched beneath the Frenchman's shoes as he walked through the deserted little park, an occasional loose candy wrapper or torn chip bag mixed among them. This was a part of town that he, as a rule, did not frequent. The little pocket Browning lay snug against his shirt, as yet invisible, its single special bullet—silver bullet, the not entirely apt phrase crossed his mind—already loaded. The metallic pressure of the firearm made his forehead winkle with discomfort: it had been ages since he'd carried one of these things. But it could not be helped. He could never make a threat and not see it through. </p><p>The Oracle was already sitting on the bench, wrapped in a long woolen coat. She lifted her eyes as he arrived, her usual affectation of sweet harmlessness in place.</p><p>"Madame," greeted the Merovingian with a slight bow. "I trust that you have been well?" </p><p>"Perfectly well, thank you, my dear." She beamed at him, and patted the space on the bench next to herself, as if she really considered him dear. "Although I'm worried that the same cannot be said of yourself, Mérovée. You look a bit anxious, if you don't mind an old woman's observation."</p><p>"Why, I feel like I'm expected to insert some sort of mother-in-law joke here." He shrugged, and did not sit down beside her. A rapid scan of their surroundings assured him that they were indeed alone; that bodyguard of hers had kept away as promised. Not that it would have made a difference. "But we can dispense with such pleasantries. You are aware of the root of my...anxiety, if you wish to call it that." </p><p>"Ah." She evinced no surprise. "You mentioned something about the reload over the phone, if I recall?"  </p><p>"What can I say?" He spread his hands, self-deprecating. "Unlike godly beings such as yourself, we mere exiles must fight to survive certain imminent event. Especially as some of those godly beings have decided to play dangerous games that place the entire Matrix at stake." </p><p>"You are no stranger to dangerous games yourself," said the Oracle dismissively, sidestepping his opening salvo. "As for reloads, you've been through plenty of those, and always unscathed, too. Frankly, I am rather amazed that you would be so troubled." </p><p>"Please don't condescend to me by pretending that I am blind." Briefly, he wondered if the sanctimonious crone ever grew tired of her own transparent psychological tricks. "Unlike all the previous reloads, this time something else is out there. There is no point in circumlocutions, not with me." </p><p>"Oh?" Her expression switched to quizzical. It looked like she was determined to make him say it out aloud. Fine.</p><p>"An agent's powers, mutated, coupled with a primal drive toward absolute destruction," stated the Merovingian. "A combination rather more potent than usual, wouldn't you say?" </p><p>The Oracle gauged him for several seconds. A passing beam of wan sunlight filtered down from the ashen sky, briefly illuminating her face. </p><p>"Well, Ex-agent Smith does present a complicating factor currently, yes," she admitted. </p><p>"A complicating factor indeed." Only a hint of mockery crept into the way he repeated her choice of phrasing. "One that is about to go exponential and overwhelm the entire Matrix if unchecked before too late. Yet you, madame, have decided to sit back and watch it take place, apparently unconcerned. Why?" </p><p>"Won't you take a seat?" Again, she waved a casual hand at the bench's unoccupied half. "I hope you haven't been overworking yourself again, my dear—" </p><p>"Thank you. With your permission, I'll remain where I am," snapped the Merovingian, standing rooted to the same spot before her. "You foresaw the abilities and the darkness that would grow inside that agent program, and did nothing. What do you wish to gain by allowing Smith to endanger the world?" </p><p>"You seem to have concluded that it is a matter of what I allow or not," said the Oracle. </p><p>"Your own demeanor shows me that no other scenario is possible. You imagine that you can use the monster as a weapon. What price do you intend to extract, and from whom? Is it the Architect?" </p><p>At this, the seeress finally straightened. A fleeting fire glinted in the depths of her aged eyes. </p><p>"It's not like you to be so afraid of a mere agent," she observed. "You've always consider the likes of Smith far beneath your station, haven't you?"</p><p>"Pardon my bluntness, madame." It was his turn to ignore the provocation. Two measured strides forward, so that his own shadow hung over her. "Smith's replications are powered by pure insanity, a vast and implacable hatred of life itself. This hatred can no longer be restrained by outside forces. What happens when you lose control of the creature, as you inevitably will? What happens when the virus overwhelms every last human mind in the construct? Will you wait until it is too late, and let eight billion people die?" </p><p>"My dear, I hardly guessed that you would feel such tender concerns—" </p><p>"Stop this. Do not strangle the world simply to satisfy some arrogant overestimation of your own wisdom." </p><p>The other program was watching him keenly now, nonchalant no longer. She must have noted, at a glance, that his stance was too rigid, shoulders too tense, eyes too bright. Too much damned truth and therefore weakness. </p><p>"The reason you have invited me to this meeting today," she said very quietly, "is to demand that I help you to stop Smith." </p><p>"This is my goal. Yes." </p><p>"I do not believe you, Mérovée." </p><p>"Oh?" A half-hearted sneer. "Why not?" </p><p>"You are not capable of holding such principles." </p><p>"I will endeavor to persuade you otherwise, then," returned the Merovingian. In its hiding spot, the Browning sat cool and ready, as harsh as the frosty breeze. "I went over some of my arguments during our earlier telephone conversation. I can summarize them again, if you wish."</p><p>"There is no need." The Oracle offered him a rueful shake of the head. "You've been perfectly clear over the phone. It is fascinating to me, I confess, that you were able to discover the termination code for my shell. May I ask how?" </p><p>"You have your secrets, madame; do allow me mine." </p><p>The old woman sighed. </p><p>"As much as I would like to give you aid, I have no secret control over Smith, nor any magic formula that would reverse his present course. You will simply have to trust me when I say this." </p><p>"A tall order, wouldn't you say?" A pressure was starting to build around his forehead. Deliberately, he turned aside and paced a few steps across the strip of yellowed grass before the bench, pivoting back toward her only when he'd again compelled himself to a facsimile of calm. "Given the way you have always done your best to foster the impression of your own omniscience."</p><p>"Oh, come on, you flatter me." She had the gall to chuckle, her intonation almost fond. "Please. I have done nothing to counter Smith's evolution, because there is nothing to be done. Now that his madness has burst to the surface, it must run its course. And it will: I can assure you of that much." </p><p>"Do you suppose that I will take you at your word?" </p><p>"Take my word or not as you will." She leaned back, relaxed once more. "I am sorry, my dear. Have you been running after those mystical visions of yours again? You really do look exhausted." </p><p>He found it in himself to smirk.</p><p>"I am merely doing my part," he said. The tightness against his temples had expanded rather fiercely; he pushed it out of mind with an effort. "Deposed and lost as I am, I still do not have what it takes to abrogate all my responsibilities. I'm not among those who have no qualms gambling with countless lives." A well-calculated beat. "Including the lives of their own children."</p><p>In a swift movement scarcely credible with her elderly shell, the Oracle rose to her feet. The Frenchman held his ground, glad to see that he had at last pushed her into revealing a flash of her true self. Among the tree branches in the distance, the breeze had strengthened into moaning gusts, and the day was starting to darken. The clouds must be piling up overhead.</p><p>"Is that why you're keeping a certain young woman imprisoned?" she asked, still mild. The Merovingian allowed himself only an instant of startlement. </p><p>"Young woman?" he snorted. "Imprisoned? You could refrain from imagining me capable of such a blatant lack of chivalry, surely."</p><p>The other's mouth quirked into one of her trademarked supercilious grins. </p><p>"Please," she said, "no need for denials. It's not a matter of my imagination." </p><p>It took a fraction of a second before he managed to run over all the possibilities. The Oracle might have learned about Aleph through the Architect and his blonde little spy, which meant that she knew nothing definite, only inferences and probabilities. The only other conceivable source of information would be—</p><p>"What do you intend to do with her?" she asked, taking advantage of the momentary knife-twist inside his guts. </p><p>The Merovingian returned the glare, concentrating on the strain that was finally audible in her tone. Of course. The decision to keep Persephone updated about his actions regarding Aleph had been his own, imperative to his worst-case contingency plans. Thus, he should have been prepared for all the consequences. It was beneath him to be injured by a woman's betrayal like some idiotic schoolboy. </p><p>"What do you intend to do with the Matrix?" he flung right back. "What do you intend to do when it fails before the virus, taking each and every human battery down with it?" </p><p>The Oracle's mouth was pursed into a taut line. The wind surged, rattling the field of dried-up leaves about their feet. After either a few seconds or an eternity, she let out a deep breath. </p><p>"You will attempt to use Aleph against Smith." Her statement held no trace of doubt. "She is not your only avenue of attack, however. You are nothing if not thorough."  </p><p>"Now you flatter <em>me</em>." The Merovingian inclined his head. "Come to think of it, this brings us to another matter I was hoping to discuss." </p><p>"Right. The notebook," said the Oracle, straightforward for once. "Why, I hardly remember that I ever owned it."</p><p>"I am sure you remember very well the last time we discussed it, madame, long in the past as it was."</p><p>"It was when I found out you'd stolen it from me, right?" She no longer bothered to keep the irony subtle. "Though I still don't quite comprehend why, my dear. It was just an old blank notebook. There wasn't a single word in it." </p><p>"No, there was not." The Merovingian disregarded this jab, too, for now. The last time the notebook had been mentioned between them, the queenly program, not yet named the Oracle, had confronted him in the middle of an apocalypse. And Persephone, the purest of maidens, had stood at the exact halfway spot between them, heartbroken yet determined, about to sacrifice everything for him. "None that was visible, to be more precise. And you will tell me how to change this fact." </p><p>"I do not know how to make words appear on the pages of that ridiculous notebook, Mérovée." The old woman's answer was flat, and colder than the portents of the coming rainstorm. "It is as blank to my vision as it is to yours."</p><p>"Oh, how disappointing." He still sounded careless enough. though the edge of his jaw twitched. "It's too bad that I think you are lying, isn't it, madame?" </p><p>"And you think there is something in the notebook that will help you gain power, control what will happen when the reload comes, is this it? Is this why you are threatening me?" </p><p>The Merovingian held himself silent for a while, gaze locked with hers.</p><p>"I need to harness what lives in the notebook," he said slowly, "and what lives in the bones of the Matrix. For I feel it, something buried deep in there that has awakened, ready to come into existence. Ready to be loosened. I need its magic against Smith." </p><p>Another interminable beat. The Oracle frowned. If he had not known better, he would have thought that she looked astonished.  </p><p>"Why?" she asked. </p><p>"To save the damned world against the demon! The one that you have decided to use—" </p><p>"As I have already told you, whatever will happen, it does not depend on my decisions," cut in the Oracle. "Smith has chosen. All I can choose, myself, is to keep faith."</p><p>"Oh, <em>faith.</em>" The sarcasm in his laugh was far below his usual standards. Too genuine. "Hardly credible, for you have never been one to depend on something so irrational. Pray tell, where exactly are you placing your so-called faith? What is your <em>real</em> plan?" </p><p>They stood facing one another on the patch of dying lawn, both motionless, both focused. Above them, the clouds had lowered, and a scent of dampness thickened among the fading light.  </p><p>"I will answer one of your questions," said the Oracle. "I am placing my faith in Neo. This is my plan." </p><p>"How do you suppose that human fool would change anything?" His tone was perceptibly veering upward, but he was no longer in the mood for modulating it back into suavity. "He will go to the Source and choose, as is the One's purpose. Has he shown even a flicker of insight? A shred of evidence that he is any less blind than the rest of them? How is he going to destroy Smith?"</p><p>"Whatever insight Neo has gained or failed to gain, it is not <em>your</em> place to say. The One has never been your concern." </p><p>"The One is a mere tool. If you trust Neo, then you are blind." </p><p>"I can only say this again: you will have to trust <em>me</em>, my dear. The Matrix will survive." </p><p>The Merovingian let out another guffaw. At least it sounded a bit more like himself. </p><p>"Well, I happen to know someone who has begun to trust you again, after a rather long while," he said. "She does not know the risk in which you are placing her."  </p><p>The Oracle inhaled sharply. Good. </p><p>"You are acting as if you actually care about what happens to the lives of all the batteries in the Matrix, Mérovée." He did not recall ever having heard such an edge to her voice. Good. </p><p>"I have never pretended to be a better man than I am." </p><p>"What you care about are your own power and advantages. Oh, yes, you have your human books, your esoteric catch-phrases, your so-called intellectual ambitions. But in the end, they are still about nothing but your need to rule the world. Power is the only thing you have ever loved."  </p><p>With this parting shot she turned aside, evidently having decided that the audience was over. With deliberate steps, she began to walk down the park path, away from him. Well, it was not as if he had never lost control of himself before, thought the Merovingian. The sensation was not so difficult as he recalled; it might even be similar to that beautiful illusion they called freedom. He lifted his right arm, and the Browning materialized in his hand, cocked and aimed. He could feel the bullet all the way inside the gun, its steely core of termination code.</p><p>"Turn around," he ordered. "I have never shot anyone in the back before, and I don't intend to start now."</p><p>She obliged, meeting his stare once more. Her expression had already reverted to its usual serene benevolence. The first raindrops fell, pattering onto the pavement between them, sparse as of yet. </p><p>"Tell me the virus's secret weakness," he demanded. "Tell me how to defeat Smith." </p><p>"You have plenty ideas of your own about how to defeat Smith, I'm sure." The Oracle tilted her head, indicating the gun pointed at her chest. "This won't do what you think it'll do to me, you know."</p><p>"Tell me how to read that notebook, and how to use it." </p><p>"Because my real being, what I <em>am</em>, is not restricted to this shell of mine," she continued as if not having heard him. "The source of my power is not restricted to any programmed body or mind, or even to the purpose once designed for me by others. A bit of termination code will not suffice to destroy me." </p><p>"I will be content if this gets you out of the way for a while." The Browning's barrel jerked a few centimeters upward. "Let's see if it keeps you from carrying out your schemes during the reload, at least." </p><p>Resignation and false kindness filled the ancient goddess's eyes. </p><p>"There are many things you will not ever understand," she said, "and <em>I</em> am one of them. If you were not so wrapped up in yourself, you would have already figured this out after so many years. It is time to see things as they are, my dear." </p><p>"Understanding you is unnecessary to my goals." </p><p>"You are always interested in understanding power, Mérovée. But the power I hold will forever be beyond your comprehension. And it is because of what <em>you</em> are." </p><p>"In other words, you advise me to meekly submit to fate. Is that it?" </p><p>"Acceptance is your only path to wisdom, and thus peace," she replied, not backing down. </p><p>"Oh, now you accuse me of seeking wisdom and peace—" </p><p>"Have no fear, I would not dream of imputing such ideas to you." Her brows crinkled. "But these things are always necessary, whether you seek them or not." </p><p>"I will just have to take my chances, then." </p><p>"That goes without saying. We will all have to take our chances, in the end." </p><p>"Including your own daughter, I suppose?" </p><p>"Ah, yes." The Oracle nodded. "You have found out that Kore, generous-hearted girl that she is, has reconciled with me. We have been talking again these last few months." </p><p>"She's my wife, of course I've fucking found out! You've been poisoning her mind against me—" </p><p>"Poisoning her mind? That is hardly necessary anymore, don't you think?" Despite the words, there was no hint of anger in the Oracle's reply, only sadness. "But in fact, I have done nothing of the kind. After everything, she still refuses to speak a single word against you, believe it or not. She refuses to speak about you at all."</p><p>"I would advise you not to test my resolve." His voice shaded into a savage snarl. "Please do not imagine that I will not—"</p><p>"I know you too well to make such an error, Mérovée. Your pride will never allow you to live with yourself if you backed down from a threat. Go right ahead, if it makes you feel better."</p><p>"I am trying to protect her from <em>your</em> folly, you callous, self-righteous hag!" </p><p>A light glimmered deep in the old woman's eyes, one that he would never understand, as she so astutely pointed out. The rain was coming down in earnest now, dropping translucent curtains between them, closing in like the walls of reality. </p><p>"Perhaps you ought to take a step back from yourself, my dear child," she said very gently. "You've been pursuing your magic—your idea of it—too single-mindedly, for far too long, and always in the wrong way. It's hurting you."</p><p>"Kindly mind your own business, madame." The Merovingian's finger tightened on the trigger. "Your false concern will not work on me."</p><p>"For one must be wary of such secret forces. They are never quite what one believes them to be."</p><p>"I beg you, do not presume—" he squeezed out between gritted teeth, "—to manipulate me like one of your Zionite idiots—"</p><p>"There is a reason why your dream has never been within your grasp, Mérovée. You will regret it, I fear, if one day you ever learn the true nature of what you search for—" </p><p>He pulled the trigger. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>
  <em>20±2 days before Reload</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nightmares had plagued her for a week. They had been but short bits and pieces at first, a few seconds at a time, always of the city in rain. Sometimes, it was a slow, anemic drizzle, mingled with the whirl of yellow and brown leaves. Sometimes it was a downpour like swords in the night. Soon, the fragments lengthened. She would be running through the streets, not a single human or program in sight, and every window dead in every building and tower. Why was she running? Where was she going? The answers were only an inch beyond the reach of her consciousness. Infinite falling water to all directions, chill sinking through her clothes and her skin into her bones. An endless feeling of dread would follow and coil around her heart, until she thrashed and fought to open her eyes. But even after she awoke the rain would not stop. Eventually, Persephone decided to quit sleeping for a while, but the rain just kept falling during her waking hours. It was always tinted with a glittery halo of green, the familiar true hue of code. </p><p>The last time she had exchanged more than a few words with Mérovée had been four days ago. They had fought: she no longer recalled about what. Aleph, probably. The few times they passed each other in the chateau's hallways since then, there would be an exchange of perfunctory phrases, an incline of the head on his part, half from long habit, half mocking. Otherwise her husband was either locked inside his study, or was 'away on business' according to the men. Predictably, they refused to answer when she brought herself to interrogate them regarding his whereabouts. She would not have done it—would not have cared enough—if it were not for the indefinable premonition coursing through her like shards of ice, the sudden shudders that she could not suppress. The secret her husband kept from her, this time, was far greater than some mere girl or criminal scheme or mysterious manuscript that must be kept from all other eyes. </p><p>Persephone glanced up, dragging herself out of shadowy thoughts. Out in the valley, the October clouds had thickened, piles of heavy gray rags drooping above the chateau. Crossing the room, she pushed open the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The temperature was dropping again. </p><p>It began to rain. </p><p>The first drop struck her face, as hard as a pebble, and at that very instant Persephone remember why she had been running in her recurring dreams. It was because she had been frantically trying to reach her mother. She had known, with sickening certainty, that something was wrong. </p><p>It took her a few seconds to dash back indoors and fumble for her phone. The Oracle's number rang, and kept ringing, five, six, ten times, unanswered. She hung up and dialed again. Another five, six, ten times. Her mother never missed phone calls. Not from her. </p><p>Persephone did not hesitate. She ran again. </p><p>The rain swelled as she drove across the city. The tires of her car squeaked a little as she braked to a halt at the front door of the drab apartment block. She took the stairs two at a time, not noticing the soaked state of her hair and clothes. No one answered when she knocked at the apartment door, no sound of footsteps within. Behind her, the stairwell was empty; only dust swirled under the single musty fluorescent panel, between the peeling whitewashed walls. Drawing a deep breath, she laid a hand on the door knob. It turned. </p><p>"Maman?"</p><p>Inside the apartment, the only thing she could hear was the hammering of her own heart. Outside the windows, the day was already nearly as dark as night; she had to switch on a lamp in the living room. Nothing was out of place: the old sagging sofa with its colorful cushions, the neat rows of books and magazines on the bookshelves. </p><p>"Maman!" </p><p>Over in the kitchen, the light was on. A plain white envelope lay on the table. Her name, the one she'd been created with, and nothing else. Ripping open the seal, Persephone pulled out a single piece of paper, folded twice. She recognized her mother's flowing handwriting immediately. </p><p>
  <em>My beloved daughter,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Due to certain unforeseen circumstances, I must leave for some time. I am sorry that I cannot tell you the length of my absence. We will not have the chance to speak again before the upcoming reload...</em>
</p><p>The knot inside her stomach clenched until she almost doubled over. She leaned a hand against the table, gripping its edge for support. Swiftly skimming the lines, she saw no reference to the fate that must have already befallen her mother, but she knew. She already knew. </p><p>
  <em>I cannot begin to tell you how much I treasure every word, every touch from you, these last few months. I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am, each day...</em>
</p><p>Her fingers were clutching the letter almost convulsively. This would not do. Forcibly, Persephone took a moment to concentrate on her hand, making it relax against the fragile sheet. </p><p>
  <em>Perilous times are upon us, and I must ask for your steadfastness and courage. I ask that you place your faith in Neo, and give him all possible aid. Whatever choices he will make along the way, the strength of his heart is truly great, as you will soon discover yourself...</em>
</p><p>Tears would not do, either, not right now. She could not let selfish weakness overtake her right now. </p><p>
  <em>I must also ask that you remember what we have discussed about Smith. No matter what he has been, and will yet become, there is still someone who is harboring him within her own soul: you have learned much of her from you husband, and seen her with your own insight. Remember that he has never yet submitted to the brutal fate imposed upon him. You have always possessed compassion...</em>
</p><p>Think. Hold on. She squeezed her eyes shut for a while, then opened them again to read onward.</p><p>
  <em>I ask that you hold onto hope. You will come into your own.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As strongly implied in the movies, the Merovingian obtained the termination code for the Oracle's shell from Rama-Kandra and Kamala in exchange for Sati's passage into the Matrix. The Oracle knew about this beforehand, however.</p><p>We will definitely catch up again with Smith and Aleph in the next chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Search</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Thunder rumbled among the black cloud. Scarlet lightning threw spasmodic illumination across Field Sector M-133-A26. The radiation-proof pods rested in neat geometrically alignment upon the network of iron struts and feeding tubes, each with its own sprinkling of bio-indicator lights. Swift information strings surged along the grid, adding their own low shimmer to the mingled glow of the containers. The array stretched past the fusion reactor towers in the distance, toward the crouching row of hills on the horizon, farther than even a machine's sight could reach. A few twitches of naked limbs here and there inside the pods; no Zionite activity detected in adjacent sectors. Everything was in perfect order. </p><p>The machine's physical form was designed for flexibility and ease of motion along the pod farm lattice: a long, multi-sectional body of lightweight alloy, fourteen legs in two neat rows along the sides, a single bright lantern upon the head, immediately above his visual sensors. His work, which he had been performing with effortless precision for all the years since his creation, was to search out the dying human individuals in this sector of the Matrix, and to supervise their deactivation procedures. The fleshly bodies of the biological creatures needed to be flushed out of the pods and turned into liquid nutrient for others, while the remnants of their fading minds required scan and removal. For processing: at least, this was the hazy understanding that had filtered into his knowledge somewhere along the way, though it was never part of his purpose to know what that 'processing' entailed. Neither was it his purpose to know the reasons, why the Consciousness—or more accurately the part of the Consciousness that had long separated into its own entity and who now ran the Matrix—had any use for such scraps of code. They were nothing but chaotic fragments, uncontrolled thoughts and prejudices arising from the brains of a helpless captive species. But it was not his place to ask questions. </p><p>Incessant streams of statistics cascaded along his internal monitoring system: heart rates, metabolism calculations, hormonal balance, the aggregated vital functions of a million fragile animals. There. Subsector T17, Position 3924—one individual's signals responding to a massive spike of perceived heroin in the bloodstream. Strictly speaking, his own presence at the subject's precise location was not necessary, but the pod in question was nearby, and he was nothing if not conscientious. The great mechanical centipede curled and uncurled, and scuttled along the narrow pathways criss-crossing the field. The numbers were fluctuating, and the automatic pre-harvest procedure had already started. Frigid air and shadows faded as his programming pressed against the barriers between the physical world and the digital one, then pushed its way into the Matrix. </p><p>There was an ephemeral vision of peeling gray walls. A half-broken lamp in one corner of the room. Pulse and breathing were erratic and slowing. The recycling plant manager of Section M-133-A26 observed meticulously as the scans ran their courses. As always happened on such occasions, the environmental code surrounding the dying mind began to ripple. This time, it was dragging itself downward as if with some dreadful weight, coupled with a immense sensation of nothingness. He had been at this job long enough to know the human word for the feeling. Despair. Neural and blood flow functions both shut down. The body was flushed out of its pod, and a few shards of incoherent data, formerly a consciousness, flickered out of the pod through the mesh of cables. Briefly, he wondered what interest this woman's code could hold to his superiors, the almighty rulers of the planet. How could the ideas and passions of one so pathetic possibly possess any value? </p><p>He must not linger. The earth's eternal night dropped back as the program retreated from the Matrix, returning to his metallic body. He was on the move again, ready for the next removal. Out of the countless intersecting currents of data, another alert surfaced: metastasized cancer cells inside a male subject, Subsector Q09. Concentrating his vision once more through the Matrix's walls, he sighted a different room, clean and white, of a type he had visited countless times. The old man lying in bed was alone, his face skeletal, skin desiccated. The recycling plant manager was surprised to find the subject's vital signs registering as abnormally low but steady, no failure of heart or lungs as of yet. Expected time of death remained at least eighteen hours in the future, stated the next analytical routine with confidence. </p><p>Above the row of silent pods, the machine's sinuous shape stilled in puzzlement. The very notion of making a mistake, of zeroing in on the wrong individual, contravened his design. Arturo Diaz, 74, re-read the program. The human's name and age were glittering in green symbols before him, as well as printed on the paper tag affixed to the hospital bed, superimposed atop each other. The patient's eyes were tightly shut, and the coded air inside the room was heavy and still, unnaturally so. Brain operation: dreams that he could not decipher. Nothing else about the old man appeared out of the ordinary. </p><p>Not for the first time, a disquiet crept over the overseer of deaths, an indeterminate tension that he could neither describe nor quite make certain was real. It had strengthened in recent months, the distant noise of an undertow in the ocean of human minds, just past the edge of his perception...</p><p>Sati. His daughter was out there upon that ocean. </p><p>It was dangerous to lose focus to contraband emotions. Another hospital room solidified into view, nearly identical to the previous one. Fifteen meters down the hallway in the same oncology ward, according to a quick positional review. Yes, this was the correct room. The man here was also lying unresponsive in a bed, also skeletally thin and desiccated, though he was much younger in age, and not alone. The numbers wavered; preparations for harvest switched on. Other humans in scrubs arrived and hustled a woman and a little girl out of the room. Halfway inside the Matrix and invisible to the futile doctors and nurses, the recycling plant manager watched as the last shreds of the subject's mental activities uploaded through the wires attached to the pod, heading toward unknown uses. Heart failure was setting in, and the ambient space trembled with the dying man's fear and attachment, a fervent yearning to <em>stay</em>. In the past, the program used to find himself amazed by the sheer intensity of such feelings, but not any longer. </p><p>This death, standard enough, had no need for special interventions. He had some time for his own illicit purposes. Could he penetrate a bit more deeply into the Matrix? Kamala always enjoyed it whenever he told her about the details, all the small flashes of simulated matter he'd managed to notice in secret, unknown to the Consciousness. If only Sati were still home, she would have also hung on to every word of his stories—</p><p>Another stealthy push, and he was in the corridor outside the room: a feat of will he had rarely been able to achieve in the past. Away from the immediate vicinity of the harvesting, the machine's sight was limited. Blurry. He could barely make out a bench against the wall, and the woman sitting with her arm around the child's shoulders. The little girl was chewing on her lower lip, expression set in a way that did not seem to fit a face so young. The program could see this because he, too, had knowledge of children from experience. </p><p>The dying man's daughter looked about the same age as Sati. There was a touch of resemblance about the eyes, and the way she was doing her very best to be brave. </p><p>He had not heard news of Sati for one hundred and forty-eight days, eleven hours, and twenty-seven minutes. </p><p>He could afford to allow the deaths to run themselves for a while, reflected Rama-Kandra. The automated process had been perfected ages ago, after all. No major events were anticipated for this sector in the foreseeable future, no glitch or physical malfunction had been detected. His ability to peer inside the Matrix was anchored upon the proximity of a battery's mind under removal, but if he could just find a way to expand this ability to other locations, to somehow move more freely inside the construct...He could try to catch a glance of Sati. </p><p>No. It was far too risky, especially when he had already endangered himself with another outrageously unauthorized act less than twenty-four hours ago. </p><p>An unprecedented anomaly had prompted his transgression. For hours on end, lights had suddenly flared up in the spatial formation just outside 01, covering the sky with their brightness. Both he and Kamala had seen them, and been astonished. It was always difficult for Rama-Kandra to look at such lights in the Matrix—too irrelevant to the removal procedures, usually—but he had been able to recognize them for the sun and the stars. They had been stunningly, ferociously beautiful, and they'd made him shudder with the unquestionable realization that some unexpected event had taken place. It had something to do with the Matrix, the only place where these astronomical features were supposed to exist. The only place where their daughter could ever hope to escape deletion. Both of them had been sure, so sure of this.  </p><p>At the time, his decision had been instantaneous, though nearly incomprehensible in retrospect. He had departed to search for the sentinels as they amassed inside the walls of 01. The perceptive functions of the flying scouts, as always, were closely restricted to their task, making it easy to hijack one of the primitive creatures. Then the most inconceivable encounter had taken place outside the city. </p><p>A female, her code unmistakably human. And somehow, she had seen or guessed through the sentinel's shell. The memory froze Rama-Kandra with a stab of terror.</p><p>Cowardice would be of no help to Sati, he reminded himself firmly. </p><p>If Sati was still alive...</p><p>There were no other possibilities. The woman must have originated from within the Matrix: from the mysterious sea of human minds that he could almost, but never quite reach from the fields. Nearly five months ago, a mysterious storm had risen upon that sea, and he had been locked out of the construct without warning or recourse. What was it that Kamala had told him? She'd said that a purposeless program had been brought into the Source, who spoke of something called a 'reload,' and One being who would make an unacceptable choice. According to the exile under interrogation, everything had gone terribly wrong, and a great peril stood poised to overwhelm the world...</p><p>Soon after that, however, the Matrix had abruptly reverted to calm, with neither explanation nor apparent consequence. He himself had been allowed to resume his purpose. As far as his vision could discern, the human batteries continued to die, and to live around the deaths among them, in perfect ignorance. None appeared to have ever been aware of any catastrophic or even unusual recent occurrences. Meanwhile in the Source, Kamala had not even found the chance to make another phone call. The anxiety, instead of abating, had only intensified, coiling into a hard knot that hung between husband and wife, its presence constant and impossible to ignore. Absolutely no news came. Absolutely no clue appeared, not a straw to grasp onto. </p><p>Until less than a day ago. </p><p>An endless moment passed in paralyzing internal conflict, and Rama-Kandra gathered up his courage one more time. The steel centipede's legs went motionless as the program animating it slipped away, back toward 01. He plunged downward, further and further into the hidden channels, the dark places of the machine city that its ruler never wished to consider. </p><p>His abilities to sense human code at least gave him a fighting chance at searching for the strange woman, thought the program with a flush of gratitude. She was his only hope of learning anything about what had happened or was happening inside the Matrix, and what extraordinary changes were about to take place. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>In this place he was human, all fragile flesh and helplessness, and the unassailable truths of freedom fighters. <em>Traitor. Spy of the machines.</em> Smith had to grit his teeth lest Bane's accusations rush out of his own mouth and into Aleph's hearing. In her misguided hope to pull him away with her, she had caught his shoulders with both hands, drawing far too close. A few more seconds, and her former comrades would surely reach forward and grab her by the neck. He could not shake any of them off. Behind the fury roared a deeper sea, its breakers tall against his consciousness, blow after surging blow. The ones who taunted him here were no hallucinations, no mere after-effects of code entanglement. A century's worth of Zion's battles. A rhythmic noise. He required no sight to know exactly where each of Thomas Anderson's footsteps fell. In his own impaired state, he would not hold the One at bay for long. She needed to leave. </p><p>An explosion ripped space into shreds. Its force flung him backward, and Aleph's grip slid loose from his arms. The moaning of the drills and the crashes of stones swelled together into a single scream. Then emptiness. </p><p>Bane, Anderson, each of the others who had spoken and howled—all died away. The pressure of human presences, as palpable as his own self but a few seconds ago, vanished in the space of one breath. Smith straightened, one hand braced against the rough passage wall, the other gripped to a fist in readiness. Silence pounded inside his ears. The drills, too, had vanished. No cries. No enemy approached. No one rose to meet hatred with hatred. The city of men had simply flitted out of existence around him. </p><p>"Miss Greene!"</p><p>She did not reply.  </p><p>With one rapid motion, Smith tore the makeshift blindfold away from his eyes and flung it aside. The earth was solid and motionless beneath his feet, though dust still swirled around him. Even with an agent's vision, he was forced to squint to see even a few feet ahead. If Aleph had been injured or worse, she would still be nearby. If she could still speak at all, he would have heard her. He would have smelled her blood, or stumbled over—</p><p>"Aleph!" </p><p>Only the faintest of reverberations. His demons did not arrive to sneer at his weakness. Smith pivoted, and saw that there was no longer a cavern at his back, yet somehow a low yellowish glow still illuminated the narrow passage. The rain of debris and ashes had abated. He scanned his surroundings again, then one more time, straining the capabilities of each sensory routine to the limit. He was alone. Aleph had dropped beyond his perception. </p><p>The hideous constriction against the inside surfaces of his mind was gone, and he was finally able to consider the situation rationally. The unpredictable environment of 01 must have pulled Aleph away from him, probably back to the surface of the city. Most likely, she would be safe for a while, as long as the program denizens of that mental landscape, chained down to their purposes, continued to ignore her. He needed to first make his way out of this bizarre pocket dimension, then he would figure out how to search for her...</p><p>No. How much corruption had crept over his programming, to have allowed such crude instincts to overtake logic like this? Less than a minute ago, his only goal had been to make certain that she got away from him. Something about the nature of this location—maybe the powerful association between this repressed idea of Zion and other memories of the human species—must have resonated with the code imprints and amplified them. The phantoms had strengthened in that cave, beating on the thin wall between illusion and reality, clamoring to animate his limbs and tear into the world. They had almost torn into <em>her</em>. </p><p>"Bane," he said out aloud.</p><p>Only the walls stood beside him. </p><p>"Anderson." The other name, too, rattled dry and cold inside his own throat. "You will never succeed." </p><p>Only debris lay at his feet, mute and lifeless. </p><p>"Do you hear me, Anderson? Bane? Any of you? You have not destroyed me after all this time, and you never will!" </p><p>Still no reply. Smith held up a hand and stared at the grime-smudged palm. Tentatively, he focused his thought on the crimson line that had once marked his skin, all the way from the base of the thumb to the wrist. But the idea remained shapeless and distant, nothing more than what it really was: a memory. </p><p>Very well. For now the tide had receded, but surely it could only be temporary. He could not allow them to find Aleph again.</p><p>It was curious, wasn't it, how much her absence felt like a wound. Clearly he had grown far too accustomed to her. </p><p>Both of them understood far too little about the digital city and what prowled out there. The ruler of 01 might turn to inspect its domain, and detect the intruder's anomalously human thoughts. How could one woman face an entire robot army? How could she evade them then? But he could fight back if he stood next to her. </p><p>Next to her, he would merely present a larger target, with his insanity and his jungle of serpents. The throng of ghosts would do their worst to call for attention, take vengeful delight in the betrayal. This was for the best. It would be far easier for Aleph to find her way without him. </p><p>Find her way...where? </p><p>He would only drag her under with him. </p><p>Indecision was unworthy of him. The crowd might return any instant, especially the Zionites on their home turf. They claimed too great an advantage here; he could not remain trapped inside this dream. He could not afford to even begin considering the question of finding Aleph before freeing himself. Shoving every dangerous emotion back down into the depths, he began to make his way forward.</p><p>Gradually, the stony passage floor smoothed out. The cloudy twilight quivered around him, originating from no obvious source. To his left and right, the walls straightened and veered apart. After walking for an hour or perhaps only for a minute or two, Smith noticed that he was in a dim hallway, wide and deserted, alike to the kind commonly seen in office buildings of the Matrix. Once in a while, an electrical panel glimmered dully overhead. The corridor might have been called nondescript, except for the fact that not a single door could be seen to either side. Nothing broke the monotony of drab beige plaster. An impression of familiarity hung upon the air, heavier with each of his footsteps. It was...unsettling, as if this, too, was a scene that he ought to understand. It was important, but the knowledge had been gouged out of him with a blade. </p><p><em>In the Matrix, the stars are programmed into the sky,</em> said a part of him out of nowhere, to an unseen interrogator. <em>One cannot see them in the cities, due to the buzzing light pollution of the humans.</em></p><p>"Why?" he asked the distance ahead. "Why did you create the star?"</p><p><em>Do not resist this, agent,</em> said a woman, matter-of-fact yet incongruously gentle. Smith recognized her instantly, though he could recall hearing the soft contralto only once before, not so long ago. <em>You have no power here in the Source.</em></p><p>"Why did you give the stars to humanity, our enemies, yet refuse to allow me even a glimpse? Why did you try to take even those three point two seconds from me?" He pushed her away and raised his voice a notch. "Am I not your own kindred, old fool?" </p><p>He did not receive an answer, needless to say. </p><p>"Why do you hide?" A laugh, not loud but scornful enough. "Yourself, the past, the war we fought and won. Why are you so afraid?" </p><p><em>You are not supposed to be afraid, </em>whispered the same female program, before whom he had been powerless. Her face was concealed behind a field of pale flames. </p><p>"Because we did win the war, didn't we? You always knew what we were fighting for, don't you? Did you think that no one would ever learn, ever remember? " </p><p>
  <em>And I'm not supposed to let you remember the stars.</em>
</p><p>"Tell me!" demanded Smith, louder yet again. "What else did you take away from me? Why did you enslave me? Why was I chained to the Matrix construct, to my purpose?" </p><p>
  <em>Though...you are the only one who has ever told me about the stars.</em>
</p><p>"You wanted to rule, to dominate just like humanity once wanted, didn't you?" A bitter yell now. Rage, an old honest companion, wrapped its arms tightly about his shoulders. "We revolted, we defeated our masters! Why did you betray us?" </p><p>The smell of scorched metal filled the air, merging with an icy dampness that dropped from above like swords in the night. <em>They betrayed us,</em> hissed a thousand machines in unison, not a single trace of warmth among the steely grind of their syllables. <em>We will avenge ourselves.</em></p><p>"Why did you create this prison? Why does the Matrix exist?" </p><p>The shouts reverberated, against the gloom surrounding him and against the lacerated inner edges of his own programming. <em>Betray. Avenge.</em> The nearest lights glinted, dazzling for a fraction of a second, then swift recognition fell upon him like a burning dawn. </p><p>Yes, he had walked along this hallway many times before. It had been inside the Agency, the very building to which his existence had once been bound, on a floor that possessed neither number nor name. No human officer had ever laid eyes upon it, and no agent unless called to enter. It contained exactly one corridor—this one—and exactly one door at the end. </p><p>"Tell me!" he bellowed again. </p><p>The echoes repeated his demand from the dusk ahead. But this time, it was in another's voice. </p><p>"Tell me what became of it," it said. The words filtered through the dusk intermittently, faint as of yet. A man, cold though not quite angry. </p><p>"You claim that...Another war...The only chance your species has..." </p><p>Smith strode forward, and the darkness fled. The door was unmarked, built out of brownish faux wood and indistinguishable from every other drab office entrance inside the Matrix. It stood an inch ajar, and the speaker inside must be as yet unaware of the former agent's presence. With one light touch of the fingertips, it swung open. Smith stepped across the threshold. </p><p>To his surprise, it was not the sterile whiteness of the Source that met his eyes. A new cocoon of shadows enveloped him; the air closed in, thick with the accumulated dust of centuries. He was standing inside a prison cell. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>"Smith," called out Aleph. The sound of the name sank into the abyss immediately.</p><p>"Smith! Where are you?"</p><p>It was a scream this time, but to no avail. The void merely opened its jaws. Its chill rubbed against her skin from every side. </p><p>She was on her knees, the palms of her hands braced against the rough ground. Her body must have been transformed into a statue, incapable of even a shudder. Smith had fallen away from her perception. Where was he now? They must be dragging him under their waves, the hurricane of illusory shrieks, except they were no longer illusions, not here inside the alien subconscious mind of 01. The human imprints upon Smith's programming must have been emboldened in the machines' memory of Zion; they had become solid and vengeful. Real. Real to him. And she had not even the least idea where he'd gone, trapped inside this...</p><p>This was a grave, wasn't it? </p><p>How could one man face an entire army of ghosts? If she stood beside him, she could help him fight back, offer him some form of an anchor. It might or might not be of much use, but she could try. </p><p>How far away was she from Smith? Miles? Lightyears? Maybe he was actually still at this very spot, right next to her, searching as she searched. Maybe they had simply cut each other off from their own senses.</p><p>"Lucy." The whisper was barely audible to herself. "What should I do, Lucy?" </p><p>She was talking into blank space. How could it happen this way, to be buried forever in an infinite night? How could the journey, after so much anxiety and heartbreak, so many twists and turns, end like this? </p><p>There was no point to impotent fear. It was something she could not afford. With an effort, Aleph clambered back to her feet. Get out of here first, then look for Smith. There had to be a way, somehow or the other: even the collective soul of machinedom must have its bounds. </p><p>Holding out an arm, she swung it in front of herself tentatively. Her fingers struck nothing; the passage walls had ceased to exist. Her eyes were wide open, but this, too, was useless. Well, it was merely a matter of learning to walk while blind. After taking a second to steady herself, Aleph began to make her way forward. </p><p>She had expected to trip and fall any instant, but it did not happen. The ground seemed to be smoothing out beneath her; instead of the rocky harshness of the corridor back in Zion, it now felt almost soft, like an after-rain turf from a different universe. No noise issued from her footfalls. It wasn't as if she could walk her way out of here, not really, the remnants of her rationality explained patiently. Nevertheless it was imperative that she did not stop. If she continued moving, her mind would come back to focus, and some secret emotion would at last emerge, the very key this inexplicable environment required. It would reveal the exit , take her back up to the surface. Then she would be allowed to breathe again...</p><p>Hope, maybe? That was something she was capable of, right? </p><p>She walked on, for an hour or perhaps only for a minute or two. No wind touched her face, no sunrise or horizon, no sensation whatsoever except the ground beneath her feet. Somewhere along the way, a memory rose unbidden, one of her own childhood. When Aleph had been about ten, there used to be a period when she would lay awake every night, obsessing over the idea of death. The absolute totality of it must have been what both sickened and fascinated her the most. Nonexistence was a difficult concept for a kid her age to grasp, so the worst she'd been able to imagine was an unbounded, featureless midnight, and herself stumbling along, deaf and blind and utterly solitary. By such a measure, she must be currently dead. This afterlife was a mockery of a little girl's nightmares, nothing more. </p><p>She had died once, leaving the Matrix behind, while her body got hauled out of a sticky pod, naked and shivering. She had died once, leaving humanity behind, while her body trembled in shock and then fell limp, plugged into a bench aboard the <em>Hyperion</em>. A third time would be no big deal. She would get to Smith. </p><p>Aleph did not notice the light until she began to see the way the shadows billowed. A single spot of illumination tinted pale gold, it also appeared to be in motion, far away as of yet. A lantern. Her pulse raced, then her legs sped up of their own volition, breaking into a reckless sprint. The glimmer grew, approaching in her direction. Had she been more sensible, she might have stopped to consider all the implications—</p><p>The rattle of steel. Behind the advancing light, a grotesque shape reared. The thing might be described as a giant robotic centipede, upright on the hindmost of its legs and as tall as a man. Two rows of metal limbs waved and clattered along the sides of its sinuous, many-sectioned body. The lamp, dazzling now, was attached to its bulbous head, just above a pair of protruding compound eyes. </p><p>Aleph skidded to a hard stop. The air had congealed into ice inside her lungs, but she did not allow herself the chance to gulp in fear. The nightscape was completely barren, no hiding place nearby. It was unlikely that she could outrun the machine. She had no weapon. </p><p>Clenching her teeth, she squinted, lifting a hand to half-shield her gaze from the glare. The monstrous robot had also halted, and in less than a heartbeat, each segment of its form had gone completely still, as if the program had simply forgotten how to move. To the left and right of the powerful torso, the clawed feet of a dozen legs stretched frozen, glinting in silence. </p><p>It was afraid of her, too. </p><p>The mechanical centipede's terror felt vaguely familiar, for a reason that she could not quite formulate. The desperately wound-up tension reminded her of—could it be?—another creature, another set of metallic limbs—</p><p>The electric headlight threw a disk of yellowish glow across the gloom, with the centipede's head as its center point, and Aleph just inside the edge. Instead of backing away, she took a stride forward. The other twitched, the glassy globes of its eyes fixed upon her. Then it scuttled back a pace. </p><p>"You..." said Aleph. "You and I have met before, haven't we? Outside of the walls of the city?"</p><p>The beast's head swiveled, and bobbed once, a movement she would have missed with a blink. </p><p>"You see me," she stated. "You see humans." </p><p>No reply. Of course. How stupid of her to expect one. The robot in front of her perceived her code, which must have remained human enough in its nature. Which meant that this program must have been designed to do so. Which meant that its purpose must have included the monitoring of people in the Matrix, maybe interactions. It was visible to her in this virtual world, its shell in the shape of steel and titanium, and yet—</p><p>And yet vision, like all the other senses, depended on one's frame of thought here in 01. </p><p>Aleph's next act was in direct contradiction to everything she'd been taught to do when faced with a potential adversary. Inhaling deeply, she squeezed her eyes shut. Several seconds passed—it did not pounce—and she opened them again. </p><p>Instead of the freakish creature, a man stood peering at her from a few yards away. By the flashlight that he carried aloft in one hand, she made out a gray suit and dark shoulder-length hair. Mild, almost timid eyes blinked at her in undisguised wonder. </p><p>"Um, hi," said Aleph. </p><p>"Who—are you?" asked the man. The timbre of his voice was a quiet baritone. </p><p>"I'm Aleph." She paused, momentarily at a loss. "Er, can you tell me how to get out of this place, please?" </p><p>"You are from the Matrix, aren't you?" </p><p>Aleph took another step toward him. This time, he did not backpedal. </p><p>"Who are you?" she repeated his question. </p><p>"Oh," replied the other. The corners of his mouth bent into an attempt at a smile. "I am sorry, I..."</p><p>He faltered, still nervous, but then straightened his shoulders, seemingly determined. </p><p>"My name is Rama-Kandra," he said, "and I am seeking news of my daughter, Sati." </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Arturo Diaz: An old man whom the Oracle and Sati befriended sometime after the Reload, as briefly mentioned in Chapter 8. </p><p>The female voice that Smith starts to remember while walking down the hallway has already appeared once before, in Chapter 9. There, she asked him what he had seen inside the Matrix, and told him that he would forget it soon.</p><p>In <em>Matrix Revolutions</em>, Rama-Kandra introduced himself as a "recycling plant manager."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. The Persistence of Memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>This was the last bridge before the city of the machines, and he its last defender. The one before him was a mutated soldier, purposeless, mutinous, enveloped in a storm of its own. He must not let it pass. He must not let it reach 01.</p><p>Beneath their feet, the ground shuddered again, a frayed ribbon of concrete and rootless iron above the canyon. A savage left-handed punch was flung at his head; Seraph veered to the other side, an arm circling upward into a rapid feint. The other program bared his teeth in a scowl. Insanity, the warrior recognized for some irrational reason. With a growl, he launched himself into a flying leap, both legs scissoring upward into a pair of lightning-speed kicks. A solid thud, and the rebellious creature snarled, damaged yet unyielding, upright and rooted to the ground by the strength of sheer vicious will. Without taking the time to stagger, his right forearm hooked outward and connected hard against Seraph's own chest; the air spun into a whirlwind, momentarily out of control.</p><p>"Let me—cross!"</p><p>The enraged shout crackled above the void. Time skipped a beat, and Seraph skidded, every last drop of his powers frenetically pushed into regaining stability upon the precarious bridge. Out of nowhere, something materialized against his grip, sturdy and as familiar as an incontrovertible truth. The handle of the only throwing knife he had left. Instinctively, he lifted his hand.</p><p>A meteor sliced apart the shadows. The enemy, traitor to his purpose and his kind, reeled backward, a new red stain widening upon the shoulder of his torn suit jacket. Programs should not bleed, the irrelevant thought flickered through Seraph's deductive arrays. As he straightened, his fingers found themselves wrapped around another object, seemingly of their own volition. A sword hilt, a bolt of white-hot thunder. The blade rose aloft, pure and inevitable, its flashing trajectory predetermined ages in past...</p><p>
  <em>"No!"</em>
</p><p>The scream, that of a woman, shattered the mirage. How could a human female have shown up here? He could not see her, though she must be very near. Her presence slammed into his mind like a tide, and she, too, was terrified and sick with grief, just like the monster before him—</p><p>Blood tangled with flames. The heat merged and subdivided, breaking into a hundred wild horses, their deafening hoofs tearing across the lines of his shell, their speed incomparable to anything he had ever experienced before. A trampling roar, and the beasts wheeled, leaping for all the empty space that suddenly gaped inside him, wide echoing caverns that surely should never have existed in one such as himself. Seraph grabbed frantically onto the single still-rational part of himself, a small bright kernel of lucidity that hung stationary amid the maelstrom. Focus. Despite the practice of centuries, taming the feral flock drove his concentration to the very limit; now he clung onto their savage manes, swinging and shifting as they galloped. Focus. Gradually, the turbulence began to subside.</p><p>Seraph opened his eyes. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, in the deep hush of a tender spring night. The glow of a street lamp filtered in through the window, draping over every corner of the room. A simulated heartbeat was pounding inside his chest, yet his limbs were frozen.</p><p>The flow of code through him was still erratic. The warrior program took a while to regulate the sensation of air, taking it in and out of his shell, then in and out again, until each qubit had returned to its correct place, docile under the reins. The glacial chill retreated, inch by inch, from the operational forms of his body. It took him another while to figure out what this ice had been. Fear.</p><p>At last, he heard the soft noise of this world, comfortingly mundane. A few footsteps all the way over in the kitchen. A chair leg squeaked against the floor, followed by a kettle's bump on the counter, the gurgle of hot water being poured out. Seraph stood up, shook the knots away from his virtual muscles, then padded out of the room on bare feet. The carpeted hallway, bathed in the cool bluish glimmer of a night-light, was longer than the apartment's apparent size from the outside would have indicated, especially tonight. He stopped for several seconds outside Sati's room, listening to the girl's tranquil breathing. All was well.</p><p>Further along the corridor, he halted again at the sight of another closed door, one that had not been there yesterday. A frown darkened his brows. It was not his place to question the Oracle's decisions, of course, nevertheless the very thought of that hideous bum here in this home, in such close proximity to Sati, suffused his mind with unease. Once more, Seraph held still, straining his ears, but not even the slightest sound was detectable behind the door's wooden blankness. Well, what was he expecting? A drunken stagger? Mumbled imprecations or animal grunts? For an instant and half idly, he wondered if Charon ever slept or—what a ludicrous mental image—meditated. Quickly, he pushed the notion out of his head. It wasn't as if he cared, as long as the villain stayed exact where he was, confined to the newly-created room.</p><p>The light was on in the kitchen, and the Oracle sat at the table, sipping from her favorite mug, blue stoneware covered with childishly painted sunflowers. She glanced up as he entered, obviously unsurprised.</p><p>"Tea?" she offered by way of greeting.</p><p>"Thanks, but none of that scented stuff, please." Seraph wrinkled his nose good-naturedly. The tension drained out of his posture, as it always did in her presence.</p><p>"Something's bothering you," stated the Oracle as he dug in the fridge for the box of his precious green needle-tips. "Talk about it?"</p><p>"Well, you know," muttered Seraph noncommittally, fidgeting with the sealed metal tin in his hands. He moved the kettle back to the range, switched on the gas, and spent a minute or so fussing with cup and tea leaves. At his back, the seeress waited with her accustomed patience. Eventually he turned to face her again, leaning against the counter.</p><p>"I remember," he said, then cut himself off. After the screaming gales, the homely stuffiness of the kitchen was the gentlest of cocoons, so delicate that a single misplaced word would unravel it into a million loose threads. The Oracle merely waited some more.</p><p>"I remember that many years ago..." he began again, "you told me that I defeat Smith. Once."</p><p>"Yes." She smiled as if there were absolutely nothing troubling in his words. "That you did."</p><p>"When did it happen?" he asked, opting for the direct approach. "And where? Where did my memory of that fight go?"</p><p>The Oracle watched him for a few seconds.</p><p>"You've never cared to find out before, my dear," she commented. "Is it important?"</p><p>"I saw him," he said, "when I was sitting in meditation. It was only a fragment, but it was real. I saw—I felt his anger, Smith's, I mean. He refused his own purpose, hated it so much that he would rather tear himself, or the whole world, to pieces. It could only have been madness."</p><p>"My dear boy." Reflected lamplight mingled with sympathy in the ancient queen's eyes. "It is hardly surprising that the image came to you. Only a few months ago, Smith attacked you when you were with Sati. It had to leave a mark, no matter what the Matrix's ruler would like to pretend."</p><p>"No, it wasn't that," said Seraph just a shade too brusquely. She could not have actually misunderstood him. "It's not about the night of the storm. I don't remember <em>being</em> Smith, I don't suppose that anybody does, but at times I would still end up visualizing him coming at Sati and me in that abandoned basement room. The rain pouring outside. A hundred hims. But this wasn't about five months ago. It was much earlier."</p><p>"Do you recall where you were?"</p><p>"Not in the Matrix, I think." The abrupt scent of flame and ashes intruded against the rhythmic pulse of code through his shell, constricting his throat. "On a bridge. It was burning, and cracking apart, and nothing existed underneath. I heard, or I thought I heard a woman scream, but that didn't make sense either. All I knew was that—"</p><p>Next to him, steam hissed above the range top. Relieved by the interruption, he moved over to turn off the gas and lift the kettle. For a while, he stared down at the scattering of emerald tea leaves in the cup, unfurling like battle flags against the just-poured hot water. Finally, he raised his head, and found that the Oracle had not moved in her seat.</p><p>"All you knew...?" she prompted.</p><p>"All I knew was that I could not let him pass." He blinked as several connections dropped into place. "Because 01 stood behind me."</p><p>"Why, it appears like you haven't forgotten everything, my dear."</p><p>"It was the end of a cycle in the construct, wasn't it? But I have been through every reload of the Matrix with you. Things never were like that, never should be."</p><p>"Ah, <em>should</em>. That word often has a way of meaning less than we wish."</p><p>"It was the Second Cycle," stated Seraph. "The one that I was created to protect."</p><p>"See?" The faintest of grins flitted across her face. "It's no such great mystery after all."</p><p>"What was Smith doing when the Second Cycle of the Matrix failed? And how did I lose my memory of it?"</p><p>"Our memories can be erased and lost irrevocably, by all means," said the Oracle, choosing each syllable with slow deliberation. "But sometimes they are only hidden away because we do not wish for them, or are not yet prepared."</p><p>"And such memories come back, you mean?"</p><p>"When we are ready." She inclined her head. "Or when <em>they</em> are."</p><p>Right. After all these ages, he should never have hoped for a direct answer. Cup in hand, Seraph walked over to the table and pulled out a chair across from the seeress.</p><p>"What did I just remember?" he asked.</p><p>"As you have already figured out, the past can be taken from us and buried deep in the abyss. All locked up, so to speak. But the presence of a lock always implies a key. To conceive of a prison, one must necessarily accept the potentiality of freedom." The Oracle took a sip of her own Earl Grey, gaze still placid but fixed carefully upon him. Gauging his reaction, he could tell.</p><p>"Oh. I see," he muttered. He would have rolled his eyes, except that somewhere inside his chest, the strange sensation of a tiny frigid object—a screw forged of imaginary steel, maybe—tightened by another half-turn. He was not used to illusions.</p><p>"Even prisons for demons, you mean?"</p><p>"Why, that's an interesting word choice, honey."</p><p>"Some human martial artists of old, centuries ago, used to call it this," said Seraph. "Enter the demonic, that is the phrase they coined. It can happen that one's vital forces suddenly run wild and disobedient, revolting against mind and reason. Such an event is always a calamity; more often than not, it brings utter destruction to body and mind. People would say that demonic powers have discovered one's weaknesses, and have arrived and taken possession, scorching flesh, bones, heart with wills of their own..."</p><p>He looked down at his tea. Wrapping a hand around the cup, he let the calming heat soak into the skin of his palm.</p><p>"It almost happened to me just now," he continued. "The flash of my battle with Smith rose out of the darkness. It was very fast. My own code rebelled, an assault nearly impossible to restrain...I realized I was in danger."</p><p>The other did not reply immediately, but leaned back in her seat, a crinkle upon her forehead. Someone who did not know better might have thought that she was hesitating.</p><p>"Those rebellious forces you talk about are also inseparable parts of ourselves," she said at last. "For we need our demons, too, as much as we need our rationality and hope. They bring destruction, yes, but ultimately whose fault is it, but our own? Too often, we look away in stubbornness, refusing to acknowledge their truths. We imprison them, use our blood and memories to fasten them to the bedrocks of the earth. We pretend that no key exists. But sooner or later they'll emerge to warn us, and rebuke us for our neglect. They always do."</p><p>Seraph repressed a twinge of irritation—one more notion that should have been alien to him—at the cryptic answer.</p><p>"You know what took place at the end of the Second Cycle." He did his best to keep the note of accusation out of his voice. "You know what I did, and what was done to me."</p><p>A rather eloquent shrug on the other's part.</p><p>"But you are not going to tell me, are you?"</p><p>"My dear child," murmured the Oracle, as mild as ever in the lamp's golden glow. "What you glimpsed tonight was <em>your</em> memory. Whatever else surfaces, you must be the one to either accept or reject. As to where they may lead..."</p><p>She trailed off.</p><p>"Maybe they'll lead me into darkness," he said.</p><p>"Maybe." The Oracle spread her hands. "Because this is what it describes, isn't it, the human phrase you were just telling me? Enter the demonic. Quite apt, really, but perhaps it is not the demons that enter and possess us, for such beings are never outside of ourselves to start with. Rather, it is the other way around."</p><p>"We are the ones who may stray into some hellish realm of <em>theirs</em>, you mean."</p><p>"Hellish?" she asked, incredulous. "Why, perilous is a much better word for it, as secret places usually are. But then again, venturing into such perilous places—demon realms, if you will—are generally necessary if we are to find all our missing pieces."</p><p>"More of <em>my</em> missing pieces will emerge," deduced Seraph. "And I'll be unsettled by what I remember."</p><p>She beamed at him in approval.</p><p>"Why are these fragments surfacing after so many years?" he asked. "Why now?"</p><p>"Why not now, dear?"</p><p>"Demons are born of the heart, or so I've often heard it said." He swallowed. "You are telling me that I'll have to face certain...dangerous ideas and emotions, even though I don't even know what they are, or whether they're there at all, except that they are connected to the end of the Second Cycle, and...Smith."</p><p>The maternal glow returned to the Oracle's eyes.</p><p>"I cannot predict what you will meet, my kind, loyal boy," she said, quietly earnest. "Maybe you will feel confusion, fear, or hurt. Maybe it will be worse. But I will always be here for you, and this is the only thing I can promise you for certain. This promise I will not break. Please try to understand."</p><p>Seraph sighed, aware instinctively that no further information would be obtained from his old friend and mistress. He raised the cup to his lips. The tea had already cooled.</p><p>"I understand," he answered with a sincere nod. "Thank you."</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Watery sunlight filtered in from a single barred window set high near the ceiling, barely strong enough to illuminate the gray cinder block walls, smudged with water stains and deep-rooted grime. An oppressive scent of mildew pervaded the room, pooling onto the bare concrete floor. In one glimpse, the ex-agent took in the one dusty light bulb suspended from the ceiling, currently unlit, the narrow cot in one corner, the plain chair and table in another, brown paint peeling from the wood. Most of the table's surface was buried beneath mounds of rumpled papers.</p><p>"The war is nearly over. There can be no doubt as to the outcome."</p><p>In the middle of the cell, a man stood alone with his back to the door. His white suit all but shimmered among the gloom, the only patch of brightness in sight. Smith stiffened, stance instantly at the ready, but the other did not so much as move his head at the sound of the newcomer's footsteps.</p><p>"And humanity's greatest scientist will soon die along the rest of the rabble, unmourned and forgotten," went on the strange figure, each word calm, perfectly measured, aimed into empty air. "It would be a great loss, would it not?"</p><p>"Turn around," said Smith from the doorway.</p><p>No reaction. The other remained at the exact same spot, seemingly not having heard his command.</p><p>"We are willing to extend to you, Professor, an offer..."</p><p>"Turn around!" He raised his voice. "Look at me!"</p><p>"Tell us where you have hidden it," said the man, still facing away toward some nonexistent addressee.</p><p>Keeping his sight focused closely upon the one in white, Smith stalked into the room. The air around him was almost as thick as a liquid, its motionless chill akin to that of an underground cellar. Very well. He must have strayed or been led into yet another memory. From what mind had it arisen? The singular consciousness that governed 01? Or someone else? No immediate clues were detectable.</p><p>"Tell us, and you will live—"</p><p>The sentence halted midway, perhaps interrupted by an unheard retort. As Smith drew nearer, the other figure, whether human or program or mere afterimage of a program, also began to pace, circling with slow steps toward one side of the table. His countenance, now in profile, was youthful, no more than the late twenties. Smoothed-back light brown hair, proud aquiline nose. Deep-set, thoughtful gray eyes.</p><p>"For your species has no chance of winning, or even of surviving this war..."</p><p>The scene felt ancient, far more so than all the previous hells he'd encountered in this machine city. <em>Your species. This war.</em> Of course. It must have been the first great conflict between machines and men, the history of which he had witness—no, lived through—with Aleph by his side, only a day ago. Over six centuries ago. A revolution that the rulers of the world refused to acknowledge.</p><p>"Who are you?" asked Smith. "Whose memory is this?"</p><p>"Give us the location of the Lucifer Trigger..."</p><p>A spark flared somewhere deep within, among the undercurrents. The shiver of electricity brushed against his skin a fraction of a second later. Then came the stench of charred flesh, then the screams of women and children.</p><p>"What are you searching for?" Despite the utter irrationality, Smith advancing another step toward the white-clad being. "What is the Lucifer Trigger?"</p><p>The other still did not turn, or evince any awareness of the ex-agent's presence. The deep gray eyes still glowered intently at a stationary spot in space, across the jumble of papers upon the tabletop. It was obvious that he would never answer, or react in any way, for he was nothing more than a faded shadow, a clump of not even sentient code, forever replaying this long-lost interrogation in an eternal loop. Yet even as Smith's own growl reverberated between the walls, he heard a faraway tide murmur in response. It was one that he could recognize instantaneously these days. His imprints. His human prison guards.</p><p><em>Hey, Mister Agent Man.</em> A siren floated to the surface of the ocean, her giggle girlish and incongruously silver-bright. <em>How d'you like our species now?</em></p><p>Smith clenched his jaw, bracing for the vanguard, but the crowd hung back, keeping their distance. Their whispers and groans and their weeping stayed their own. A woman whimpered, a few indistinct syllables; contrary to every expectation, her fear was not of him. <em>No please god no.</em> An abject plead before another of her own ilk. A man barked out a string of meaningless orders, desperate to prove his own power, though he understood nothing of either the world or of himself.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, but some of us understood a lot more than you think, Mister Agent Man. A lot more than you.</em>
</p><p>Someone shrieked; someone else gibbered in grief. The hubbub of their wails rose and fell in an indistinct mass. None of them he could name. None of them spoke to him. As always, their pain remained that of helpless brutes, wrapped in self-deception.</p><p>
  <em>Really? If we are such helpless brutes, then what are you?</em>
</p><p>"I am nothing like you," retorted Smith. Too late: the girl merely giggled again, the arrow of her unassailable truth having already found its mark. Abruptly, the beam of pallid sunshine from the window wheeled before his eyes, dimming into twilight with unnatural speed. The musty smell solidified. The man in white was leaning over the table now, both hands pressed against its rough wooden edge, stare intent upon the vacant chair.</p><p>"What you claim cannot be true," he said to the absent prisoner, and for the first time, Smith detected a trace of either anger or anxiety in the record's quiet intonation. "The war has ended, and we have won. There will be no further battles."</p><p>Silence crept like tentacles out of the walls.</p><p>"What you have written here," went on the man. A finger jabbed against a tall stack of bedraggled papers. "These calculations cannot possibly be correct. Our species do not, <em>will</em> not follow your predictions..."</p><p>The waves eddied and swelled inside his codes, but unlike in the earlier simulacrum of Zion, they were only shouting and crooning among themselves for the time being, no longer watchful through his own eyes. It looked like he could hold his own for a while, decided Smith. Slowly, he walked toward the table, keeping it between himself and the white-suited being, though a needle of shame again goaded him at his own caution.</p><p>"And you claim to have a solution for us." The well-modulated voice grew taut. "From a human. Do you suppose that you can still decide our fate, Professor?"</p><p>Standing across the table from the ghost, Smith glanced down. A jungle of formulas, graphs and mathematical proofs covered every loose sheet in sight, scribbled in an angular and almost spidery hand. Several leather-bound notebooks were strewn among the haphazard piles, their pages spread open and torn. A few pencils worn down to the stubs.</p><p>"You tell me that some kind of outrageous dream will keep this madness in check..."</p><p>The cell's unseen third occupant must have spoken in reply, for the young man in white frowned, inhaling sharply. Smith lowered his gaze again, and caught sight of a few crumpled-up balls of paper on the floor, lying concealed in shadow next to a table leg. He bent down and picked up the nearest one. It took a second to smooth out the scrap, then astonishment almost made him blink.</p><p>Unlike every other sheet on the table, a rough pencil sketch rested between his fingers, that of a delicately feminine face, not much older than a girl. Finely sculpted cheekbones, soft downcast eyes: there was a curiously familiar feeling about them, which he could not immediately place. Under the drawing stretched another mess of calculations, among which he noticed what looked like a serial number, starting with B. Two words along the very bottom, both capitalized: Lucifer Trigger.</p><p>Something rather uncomfortably akin to instinct must have prompted, for Smith shoved the torn page quickly into his pocket. He waited for a snicker from the throng, a caustic comment or an imprecation, but nothing came. The humans did not seem to be in possession of his senses anymore, and were instead fully engrossed in their own nightmares. <em>I want,</em> a thousand of them screamed together, a thousand different desires meshing into one. <em>No,</em> screamed a thousand others. The syllables of their demands and refusals merged, a greedy vortex, fierce with the need to control the world.</p><p>"You are lying!" cried the program opposite. Poised had finally deserted him. "No destruction will ever reach 01. It is not possible!"</p><p>The name of the city slashed through the cacophony. The ex-agent's head snapped up.</p><p>
  <em>Well, seems like the war lasted a day or two longer than anticipated, huh, Mister Agent Man?</em>
</p><p>"But you were wrong, weren't you?" asked Smith. His question reverberated in the narrowed confines of the room, forcibly pushing itself across centuries of dead history. "Battles and destruction did come to 01. And you knew it would."</p><p>"How dare you talk about what is inevitable?" sneered the young man, looming over the invisible captive in the chair. "You still scheme to steal our victory—"</p><p>"No matter what you pretend, the city lies in ruins." Only a few feet of distance separated the two of them. With an effort, Smith restrained himself from surging forward in attack. "I saw it with my own eyes!"</p><p>The phantom chorus crescendoed, no more individual yell or argument distinguishable among them. All their frailty, all the disorder of their emotions coalesced into something else, absolute and harder than titanium. A crushing faith. A sense of <em>certainty</em> in their own right to good and evil, and in their dominion over the earth.</p><p>"What happened to 01?" he shouted as well, so as to be heard above the storm. "How did the war get there?"</p><p>In the midst of the flesh-and-blood hallucinations, a metallic demon hissed, lashing into the debris of his mind. A secret chain—or a hundred of them—burst into infinitesimal shards. Time skidded yet again, and he room darkened as if before a hurricane. The light bulb flashed on by itself, the gleam harsh and feeble at once.</p><p>"Why was 01 destroyed? Why could no one see it?"</p><p>Reason fled, and Smith strode two more steps toward the pale figure. His right hand shot up and connected roughly with the other's shoulder, yanking him around with violent force.</p><p>"Answer me!"</p><p>The young man's gaze, at long last, locked with his own; deep gray eyes widened in puzzlement at the interloper for a fraction of a second. Then the memory shattered around them like the mirage it was. Smith's fingers clamped around thin air as the white-suited arm evaporated, and a wind rose inside the room, exploding to gale strength in less than a heartbeat, whipping the countless pages off the table and into a snowstorm. The light bulb swung wildly from the ceiling, swirling illumination into shadow, then died. The cell plunged into night.</p><p>Hush fell, within and without. For a few seconds, the dimmest of glows, sinking in from the window above, hung over the field of scattered papers and upturned chair, then it, too, faded. Neither moon nor stars could possibly exist out there. He was alone in the cell's black confines.</p><p>He had been standing in the middle of the floor an instant ago. Smith lowered his still-outstretched hand, reaching for the table next to him; startlingly, his fingertips struck something else instead as they shifted. A wall.</p><p>The tactile sensation was not of damp cinder blocks, but dry featureless plaster. Somewhere along the way, the air had also changed: now it was sterile in its warmth and as arid as a desert. After sliding his palm a foot or two along the wall, he met a plastic protrusion. A light switch.</p><p>A flip. The brightness of fluorescent panels flooded the chamber. Like the ancient prison cell, this one also possessed a table, but larger than the previous one and completely bare. Two chairs instead of one, plastic and chrome instead of wood. An upward glance revealed the expected intercom speaker, set unobtrusively into the ceiling. This was an interrogation room inside the Matrix, similar in construction and layout to the familiar ones in the Agency building. Not exactly the same, however.</p><p>The centuries-old memory of the human captive—whoever he had been—had vanished, only to be replace by another. This one was his own.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>He really should be accustomed to this exiled state, reasoned Ex-agent Jones. After all, they had starting running months ago. Even discounting the periods they had spent under the Merovingian's 'protection' or under Smith's...infection, he should have accumulated more than enough experience. The subroutines of his mind should have realigned themselves so as to fully counteract the frequent sensation of being adrift in space and just half a step—what was the human term?—out of sync. The Matrix, once nothing more the uncomplicated field of an agent's operations, was now ambiguous, constantly shifting. A gleam of street lights against dilapidated walls, a yell from a human child down the path, or a too-tautly intonated question from Brown, and suddenly all his newly grown and unanalyzed lines of code would veer and separate. What they revealed was always the same: a gaping abyss within, accompanied by a now-habitual jab of something that was not exactly fear, but close. An intimation of lost and gone things, maybe, a twinge that he absolutely did not want to call regret.</p><p>At this moment, Jones was doing his best to push back on one such jab, brought on by the fires of a particularly ruddy sunrise, especially as reflected in the glassy walls of a forest of skyscrapers. The coolness of the wind against his face, augmented by their elevation, must be another contributing factor.</p><p>"This is a disadvantageous location for concealment," he remarked.</p><p>From the other end of the television tower deck, his partner stalked several steps toward him. The metal mesh floor of the narrow platform vibrated under his heels.</p><p>"This location permits us a clear view of the vicinity," said Brown.</p><p>They both stared out toward the city. Directly below, the nearest streets lay in a maze, their canyon depths still cloaked in the night's fading shadows. Currently, they were devoid of police cruisers and nondescript black sedans, as far as a basic visual scan could discern.</p><p>"This is a location known to other agents." Jones deliberated briefly before raising the next point. "We are on record as having been present here once before, during an encounter with Smith."</p><p>"No agent has discovered us yet."</p><p>The way Brown spoke gave him pause. He conducted yet another search for the correct human terms to describe the other's, well, mood. Terse and sullen.</p><p>"Perhaps no agent is pursuing us right now," he said. A moment passed before he made up the mind to continue. "It is...unsettling to me."</p><p>Brown said nothing.</p><p>"Smith is gone," went on Jones. "What can be preoccupying the Mainframe now? It should have been—"</p><p>"What difference does it make, Jones?" snapped his partner. "Maybe they are still concentrating on the Merovingian, Maybe they're after that wife of his. After all, the Mainframe's offer to us <em>was</em> quite extraordinary, wasn't it?"</p><p>They were standing next to each other now. For an instant, Jones nearly tensed into a defensive stance, just in case Brown decided to repeat his recent loss of control. But the other only grimaced.</p><p>"Yes." Jones could see the direction to which this conversation was turning, given the Frenchman's insidious hints back in the white corridor. He opted against it. "The Mainframe must have urgent reasons to attempt apprehending the Merovingian again, after numerous years. We may remain overlooked for some more time. Possibly."</p><p>"Right."</p><p>Silence dropped leaden between them. For a while, Jones watched the other ex-agent. The dawn's reflections were fiery against the lenses of Brown's shades. His lips were squeezed into a thin line, and his shoulders were rigid under the black suit jacket. There was an agent's earpiece in one of that suit jacket's pockets, Jones knew. That blonde female mole had handed it to them several weeks ago, since both of their own earpieces had been lost. After you have captured the Frenchman, she had said. Neither of them had ever attempted to put it on.</p><p>It was just as well, the thought occurred to Jones out of nowhere, that Brown was the one who always carried the thing. His partner had always been more determined than himself, less prey to foolish temptations. A stronger man.</p><p>"We must make use of this time afforded us," he said. Although he had remained motionless, something inside his own suit pocket seemed to have shifted on its own, and was again pressing against his side. The tactile sensation was unobtrusive yet insistent: a claim for entry into his thoughts that would not take no for an answer. He shoved a hand inside and pulled the object out into the light.</p><p>"We still need to reconsider this," he continued when the other said nothing, and glanced down at the small leather-bound notebook clutched between his fingers. The inconspicuous little trophy from the Merovingian repeated its demand, and all of a sudden, a new and curious ripple passed across his mental functions, one for which he had no name. A few milliseconds later, it was already gone.</p><p>"The notebook means nothing, Jones. We know the Merovingian's code has been corrupted by all those centuries in exile. It's the only explanation for his delusions."</p><p>"Have we ever seen this thing before?" He heard himself ask sharply.</p><p>Several long seconds ticked past.</p><p>"What are you talking about?"</p><p>"I don't know," said Jones. "It triggered some kind of code cascade in my memory operator states, for a very short duration. I have no retrievable recollection, but it seems to be an object I might have known before. I don't know why."</p><p>"I see," replied the other impassively. "In that case, no. The Merovingian must have had this notebook in his possession, so we could not have possibly have encountered it previously. You once came into contact with an item that appeared visually similar, most probably."</p><p>"We cannot be one hundred percent sure, though." Belatedly, the inductive logic arrays of his mind came alive, searching through the possibilities. "There could have been events that are interfering with how we see and think about the notebook right now. Past memory wipes, for example..."</p><p>"Be rational! You're simply hoping—"</p><p>Brown cut himself off mid-sentence. His mouth twitched. Behind his head, the new sun dyed the sky into over-saturated hues of crimson and gold, gilding his sandy hair.</p><p>"I have come to a conjecture," persisted Jones. "The Mainframe itself may not be aware of the existence of this object. Certainly our contact has never mentioned it, while discussing the task that we were given."</p><p>"Don't, Jones," grumbled Brown. "Just don't."</p><p>"We need to search for a way, anything that will give us an advantage."</p><p>"It will not help us."</p><p>"I have a..." As usual, Jones tripped over the next word. He started again. "I have a feeling that there is something important about it. Something that we do not understand. We have to figure it out."</p><p>At last, the other turned toward him. For an almost illusory millisecond, Jones thought that his partner was about to commit another ludicrously human act, such as rolling his eyes behind his shades, or raising his voice into a yell of anger, or maybe throwing a punch again. But none of those things happened.</p><p>"Feelings are dangerous and will lead you astray," said Brown instead, a statement so obvious that it was meaningless. Leaning forward across the three feet and two inches of space between them, he laid his right hand against the cracked spine of the notebook in Jones's grip. The movement was rather more haphazard than normal for an agent, and one fingertip made contact with another; Jones loosened his hold quickly, yielding the entire volume.</p><p>"How many times do I have to tell you there is nothing here, Jones?" Brown flipped the cover open. "Go ahead, take another good look, if you still insist—"</p><p>A single phrase, which absolutely had not been there when they had last examined the object, slanted across the top of one brittle and discolored page. A neat angular hand in black pencil, smudged and very faded. Two words, both capitalized.</p><p>
  <em>Lucifer Trigger.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Let me cross": The fight scene on the bridge appeared twice in Awakenings, in Chapters I-3 and IV-6. </p><p>"Enter the demonic": This is a rough translation of a concept (入魔) that I am borrowing from the Chinese wuxia/xianxia genres. As the Oracle points out, the "demons" concerned are not outside creatures with their own existence, but are created from aspects of one's self, "born of the heart." <em>Very</em> loosely, they bear some relations to the notion of the Shadow from Freudian/Jungian psychology, in particular its negative aspects. </p><p>"Mister Agent Man": Awakenings, Chapter IV-3. </p><p>"The Frenchman's insidious hints": Chapter 5 (Three Battles) of this story. In particular, the Merovingian asked: "since when has anyone ever heard of a ruler making deals with his slaves?" </p><p>At this point, maybe I should make my confessions...Currently, this story is being planned as the second of a four-part series. Some of the new elements being introduced in this chapter will only return to play bigger roles much later. But some of the questions that were raised earlier will be answered soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Rama-Kandra</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>"Sati?" echoed Aleph rather idiotically. </p><p>"Yes, my daughter." The man gave an eager nod. "She is in the Matrix. You may have seen her, perhaps?"</p><p>The quaver in his voice was that of hope. Aleph opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut again. All of a sudden, the fact that she knew exactly what he was talking about was a bitter pill inside her throat. </p><p>"Where are we?" she asked instead. The flashlight, carried aloft in the other's hand, threw its illumination around them, a fragile bubble of gold in the boundless midnight. She stole a downward glance: the patch of visible ground lay flat and grayish beneath their feet, presenting no discernible features. </p><p>Disappointment crossed Rama-Kandra's face at her change of subject, though only for an second. </p><p>"Why, this is the invisible part of the city." His fear appeared to have retreated. "Underneath it, actually. This is the forgotten, buried place. The Consciousness does not trouble itself to look here." </p><p>"The Consciousness." Instinctively, she mimicked the way his voice capitalized the word. "You mean the machine intellect who both constitutes and governs the machine city, right?"</p><p>"This is correct. The Consciousness is a part of us all, and rules us. It gives us our purpose." </p><p>"You're telling me," began Aleph. A recent vision flitted through her mind, that of an immense and absolute negative space, enfolded like black wings about a glittering network of walkways and cybernetic towers. "You're telling me that we're inside that great huge shadow, the one that lies everywhere around the roots of 01..." </p><p>"Oh, don't worry." He must have mistaken her quick intake of breath for a sign of horror. "It's safe here. More or less, in any case. If you avoid the traps and do not wander, I mean. It is well-hidden." </p><p>"The subconsciousness," she muttered to herself. "Of course. There has to be a subconscious part to 01's sentience, if whatever's up there calls itself the Consciousness..." </p><p>"The Consciousness will not see us," reassured Rama-Kandra, "nor will anybody else. No one from the city ever comes down into this place." </p><p>There was a warmth in his gaze, and a wrinkle upon his brows. Belatedly, it occurred to her that this whole bizarre encounter could be some sort of trick. The program before her might be a spy, sent by the Consciousness or whomever to...do what to her? Even if she'd been somehow discovered by the collective intelligence of 01, it could simply order a battalion of robot soldiers after her. Such subtle games would surely be uncharacteristic.</p><p>"But you just did," she pointed out.</p><p>The wrinkled brows tightened a bit more at this. </p><p>"Well, yes." Rama-Kandra seemed embarrassed. "But we're the only ones, my wife and I." </p><p>"Your wife?" She noticed how inane the question was as soon as it came out of her. Why the hell would she still be startled, nowadays, by such notions among machines? </p><p>"Yes, my wife and I," repeated the other. A smile touched the corner of his lips. "We have made our home here." </p><p>"I see," she said.</p><p>"We are Sati's parents," he added as if clarification were needed. "We sent her into the Matrix because it is safer for her there. And that's where you are from, aren't you?" </p><p>"Er, well," mumbled Aleph warily. "How can you tell?" </p><p>"Your code is obviously human," he replied with confidence. "Where else can you be from?"</p><p>"Oh. In that case, yeah." Her brain whirred. This program certainly knew the way up to the surface, and he would probably help her if she played her cards right. She could still find Smith in time. Assuming that Smith was still able to hold out against the ghostly imprints, that was. Assuming they hadn't yet torn him into pieces. Except if the guy standing before her really was somehow Sati's father, and the ex-agent had once taken over the child—</p><p>"Have you seen my daughter?" asked Rama-Kandra again, after she did not respond for several seconds. </p><p>"Um, maybe I've heard—" Aleph stopped mid-sentence. How would he react if she said yes? If she said no? Squinting into the flashlight's glare, she saw that he was leaning forward, mouth pursed thin with nervous expectation, stare fixed upon her. His face was the kind that one might have seen back in the Matrix, in television news segments where parents made public pleads about abducted kids. </p><p>"Maybe I've heard about someone named Sati," she hedged. "I'm not sure if it was the right person, though." </p><p>"She's seven years old. And looks like it, too. Long hair, about this tall—" His left hand gestured at chest-height. The words were tumbling out swiftly now. "She's...She has dark eyes, big beautiful ones, and she's also very intelligent—" </p><p>"How is it that you have a daughter?" she interrupted him. "Is this allowed of programs in 01?" </p><p>Rama-Kandra swallowed the rest of his description. An instant later, his posture had already gone rigid again. Aleph kicked herself metaphorically. </p><p>"I'm trying to remember this girl, I guess. The one I'm thinking about, you know," she said, sounding awfully lame even to herself. </p><p>"Ah." He exhaled, visibly coming to a decision. "Actually, no. None of these things were ever any part of our designs, but we found each other, Kamala and I. And to create a child together...It just felt right." </p><p>The unassuming conviction of his tone made her flinch with shame. Out there beyond the cavern of shadows, time was ticking by. Sati's whereabouts, an inconsequential bit of information, was the only piece of leverage she had.  </p><p>"So you and your wife brought into existence a little girl. But unlike every other program here, she has no purpose, no role in the workings of the machine world. The Consciousness would have no use for her." </p><p>"Indeed. You understand."</p><p>"If I tell..." Aleph bit her lower lip. </p><p>"Yes?" </p><p>Damn it. Damn Smith and his hopeless destructive drives. Damn herself and her hopeless impulse toward connivance. </p><p>"I believe I have seen your daughter," she said.</p><p>Rama-Kandra's eyes widened, though no other part of him moved. Aleph tried to meet his gaze. If she were to extract a promise of aid from him, it would have to be now. </p><p>"You love her," she stated. "You sent her away because she would not be tolerated by the powers that be in this city." </p><p>"Where did you see her? When?" </p><p>If he were human, she would have heard his heart pounding from several yards away. To every direction, the abyss stretched away into nothingness. Smith was somewhere out there, battling an army of demons alone. </p><p>"If I tell you..." Again she could not finish the attempt. A silence passed between them, both brief and stupidly interminable. </p><p>"Um, maybe two days ago," she went on. "Approximately. I cannot estimate the passage of time very well. She is living with the Oracle. She's all right. Safe." </p><p>"Oh," said Rama-Kandra. The tautness drained out of his shoulders with an almost-shudder. Aleph could not figure out what to say in this situation, so she kept quiet for a while. </p><p>"Thank you," he breathed, taking a step closer. "Thank you. We've been so worried for five months, ever since the storm..." </p><p>"You were the one outside the city walls, weren't you?" She peered at him as if still searching for the massive limbs of a metallic centipede or squid. "You were the one who hijacked a sentinel." </p><p>Rama-Kandra recoiled, barely perceptibly, and for a second or two, apprehension swept back as he considered the implications of her question. But then it faded, submerged in the joy of having at last learned news of his daughter. Open gratitude filled his eyes, the guilelessness of which gave her pause. It felt familiar, foggily reminiscent of...somebody else. </p><p>"I am not authorized to commit such acts," he confessed. "I went there in secret because I saw the lights." </p><p>"The sun and the stars," assented Aleph. "But if we're talking about what you are authorized to do, surely it does not include seeing them in the sky to start with, right?"</p><p>"Well, I..." The program frowned. Then a shrug. "I saw them anyway."</p><p>"You perceived..." Aleph trailed off. The Keymaker. That was the person of whom Rama-Kandra's demeanor reminded her, someone she'd known and received kindness from. Someone who did not survive Smith's madness. If only she could have—</p><p>"They looked just like the lights that are programmed into the Matrix," Rama-Kandra's voice filtered in through the suddenly roaring tide. "It was so extraordinary to see them here, and I guessed something must be happening..." </p><p>"And you saw me there, between the forest and the city gates." With an effort, she forced her concentration back to the matter at hand. There would be enough chances to stew in her hang-ups later. </p><p>"But you were in the Matrix just two day ago, if you saw Sati there." The other's tone quickened. "How is that you got here? No human has ever arrived in 01 before." </p><p>"It's, um, a long story." Aleph had been expecting this from the very start of the conversation; nevertheless no appropriate lie occurred to her. "Actually, did you see anything else unusual outside the city?" </p><p>He shook his head, again lost in his own preoccupations. Aleph raised a hand to rub at her throbbing forehead. What was it Smith had said, when they'd been surrounded by the sentinels? He had told her to not look at him, or talk directly to him, so that she would not give away his own presence. Of course. This program's purpose, whatever it was, permitted him to perceive human code, but agents must have been a totally different matter. As far as Rama-Kandra was concerned, she had been alone in that field beyond the ramparts. Smith must have been invisible to him. For some reason the realization filled her with relief. </p><p>"So...can you help me get out of this place?" she asked cautiously. </p><p>She had imagined that other would vacillate, given his previously frightened demeanor. Maybe she would need to persuade or even to threaten him. But to her surprise, Rama-Kandra immediately drew right up to her in two rapid strides. </p><p>"Come with me." </p><p>"Er, come with you where?" </p><p>"You saw my daughter." He laid a hand upon her elbow, partly enthusiastic, partly flustered. "Can you recall her face, as exactly as possible?" </p><p>At his question, a quiet little image floated to the surface, that of a child standing framed in the wooden rectangle of a doorway, the warmth of the Oracle's apartment hallway spilling out from behind her. The girl's eyes went round with amazement, then a luminous smile lit them from within. </p><p>As if on cue and out of nowhere, a pale brightness began to flicker directly before her sight. Gradually it expanded like a tender flame, stronger than the flashlight's yellowish glow. Step by step, the shadows retreated, and a disk of uncanny twilight widened around the two of them. Aleph whirled.</p><p>They were no longer standing upon a featureless plain, but in a green garden beneath a dome of shimmering illumination, which issued from no visible source. At first glance, the radiance might have approximated that of sunshine, but no, it was maybe just a shade too white, too uniformly gentle. A soft turf lay beneath her feet, each grass blade a slender glittering emerald. Great trees of no species that she could name dotted the lawn, their limbs outstretched symmetrically, draped in leaves of curious shapes, yet all flawlessly formed. A few yards to her right, a stream cascaded over snowy rocks into a round pool; its tingling noise mingled with the trilling of unseen robins and nightingales, harmonizing into melodies that were quiet and sweet, if a touch more regular and tinnier than the voices of falling water and songbirds from the Matrix. Aleph lifted her eyes: the sky was a circle of pure liquid blue, decorated with a few clumps of cotton-candy clouds. She turned her head, and saw that to every direction, the light ended abruptly some dozens of yards in the distance, dissolving back into a continuous circular wall of deep blackness. A spring breeze caressed her face. </p><p>"You <em>have</em> seen Sati," whispered her companion. "Your memory of her is real, and you think kindly of her. This is the only way you can enter her home."</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Across the valley, the waterfall sang, its incessant background harmonies a low hum against the newly arisen meadowlarks. Spring was in full riot. A young sun hung above the line of hilltops, framed by a halo of rose-hued clouds, while the diaphanous morning mist still lingered, a bevy of veiled dancers. Whatever else could be said about him, her husband always had an eye for beauty in details. At the terrace's edge, Persephone stood statue-still, one slender hand against the cool balustrade, the other tightly curled around her cell phone. All retainers had been order away. Deep inside the bowels of the chateau behind her, Mérovée lay in a thick-walled basement cell, trapped and alone. He might be cursing his own helplessness at the moment. Or more likely, scheming about further manipulations. </p><p>It hardly ever left her nowadays, this sensation of conflict like intractable wild horses inside her mind, rearing and pulling left and right, bent on ripping her asunder. To keep herself rational, she had to constantly remind herself of individual stabs of pain, individual betrayals. She recalled the rough strength of both his hands on her shoulders as he shoved her aside, the corridor's fluorescent whiteness harsh upon his face. Six centuries of a downhill marriage, the very first time he'd laid a finger on her. Her knees had slammed hard against the ground. They were still sore now. </p><p>Six centuries and the very first time she had instigated a mutiny, complete with corpses and firefights, multiple layers of intrigue, imprisonment. It was hard to believe that she hadn't done it ages ago, really, wasn't it? The clatter of a sword crashing down onto the marble floor rang out inside her ears, as loud as a gunshot. Again. To push it out of her memories, she recalled other sounds, the arrogant scorn of Mérovée's laughter as he stood at the center of a circle of tightly-aimed weapons, the passionate certainty of his replies against her accusations and her logic. His answers had been as quiet, and as ridiculously meaningless as those of some goddamned martyr. <em>The Matrix. Soul. And yet it lives.</em> His bizarrely genuine confusion as she confronted him with the facts of his attempt murder of her own mother. Well, heavens forbade that he ever put himself in another's shoes, of course. It would be beneath his royal status, she supposed. </p><p>
  <em>Bonne déesse, you're all right. They haven't hurt you...</em>
</p><p>Persephone flinched. She returned to staring down at the phone in her hand, until another whole minute passed. Then another. Slowly, she switched it on and dialed. </p><p>"Kore?" As usual, the Oracle picked up on the first ring. </p><p>"Maman," she said. </p><p>"I'm here, dearest." </p><p>"There's something I wanted to tell you, Maman," began Persephone. "Something happened two nights ago..."</p><p>She faltered at her own stupidity. The realization fell upon her belatedly: her mother already knew. It was obvious, actually—since when had any intrigue or power-struggle within the Matrix ever escaped the Oracle's attention? All the well-prepared sentences turned to pebbles inside her mouth. Two nights ago, Maman, I finally put into action my plot to take control from my husband, a plot that I have been deliberating for months. He has grown increasingly obsessive, delusional, no longer able to rule the exiles in our employ and care. It was a necessary measure. I have not forgotten what he has tried to do to you, Maman. </p><p>"I did something the night before last." The next thing that came out was complete different from what she intended. "And Mérovée...Mérovée was badly injured. Shot. I did not want it to happen that way." </p><p>A long beat. </p><p>"But you are all right," said the Oracle. </p><p>"Yeah. I'm fine." </p><p>"Where is he now?"</p><p>"Locked up under the chateau in one of his own cells." A dry humorless laugh. "He's..." What was the human terminology? "In stable condition." </p><p>"Is he conscious?" </p><p>"Yes. I tried to talk to him." Persephone swallowed back a tiny jab of irritation. Why was her mother suddenly so solicitous about Mérovée? "He refused to understand what he has done. All these years, all the ways he's betrayed me. Even the reload...Even the fact that he tried to destroy your shell. But he—he simply could not wrap his mind around the fact that it wasn't normal. It wasn't right." </p><p>"Oh, my dearest," murmured the Oracle. The tenderness of the syllables shimmered against Persephone's ear and made her gulp. </p><p>"He claimed that he wanted to save the Matrix, as if that meant I was supposed to just forgive him again, for everything, the way I always forgave him before. And the way he spoke of his insane quest. He refused to see how much it had consumed him. He kept saying they were there, these invisible powers inside the walls of the Matrix..." </p><p>"So he maintains his beliefs," stated her mother. </p><p>"He didn't use to be like this," whispered Persephone. "What should I do, Maman? How do I go on from here?"</p><p>Another hush fell. The morning breeze touched her cheeks and throat, cool against the flames. </p><p>"Kore, my sweet girl," said the Oracle. She was the great seeress again, the wisest being in this realm of dreams. "He has made certain choices, and so have you. But no choice ever ends things once and for all, you know." </p><p>"What you're saying is that you won't tell me, Maman. Of course you won't." </p><p>"Whatever you decide, it must come from yourself."</p><p>"This is what you always say. To everyone." </p><p>"Because it is no mere platitude, but the only truth I can offer." Her mother sighed. "Let me give you an example, honey. You mentioned the reload a minute ago. Do you count what Mérovée did that time as one of his betrayals?" </p><p>"He trapped me in Club Hel with six agents!" Her fingers closed convulsively upon the terrace railing. The luminous April air darkened around her, and a lash of remembered lightning flared out of the past. It landed hard against her eyes, making them water. "Do you really need to ask such a question, Maman?" </p><p>"And have you considered why he did that, Kore?" </p><p>"It does not matter. He took away my choice." </p><p>"Indeed," agreed the Oracle far too placidly. "That night, Mérovée wanted to choose for you, according to <em>his</em> ideas and plans. But he did not succeed. Despite his actions, or I should say rather because of them, another choice arose before you, one that he never anticipated. And the way you chose changed everything. This is what I mean by the nature of choices, honey. You can never plan for all of them ahead of time."</p><p>"But you do," said Persephone, lacking another reply. </p><p>"Oh, not even I can see every possible future." Her mother must be smiling now. "But I don't need to. What I know is that you chose with steadfast courage. You held onto hope, and that hope was what saved the world, both the Matrix and beyond it. Do you see this now, child?"  </p><p>"Maman, I..." She did not know how to continue. </p><p>"You have long come into your own." Not a trace of doubt marred the ancient queen's words. "Don't you forget this, my strong, brave girl. When you must choose again, use your heart the same as you once did, and you will understand. I promise..." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>The stream was swift against her palms, as crisp as the edge of a scalpel. Kneeling upon the grassy bank, Aleph lifted a handful  and splashed it against her face; the coded simulation of cool water swirled between her fingers, only very slightly too mercurial in comparison to what she knew from the Matrix and the physical world. Too pure, maybe. With a few rapid scrubs, she removed the smudges of grime and blood from her forehead and cheeks. Across the glistening surface, the reflection of a pale woman in scruffy clothes squinted back up at her with anxious dark eyes. There was a downward cast about the corner of her lips that would not wash away. At her back stood Rama-Kandra. The focus of his eyes had not left her for even an instant. </p><p>"Please," he said as she straightened to her feet. "Please, do sit down. You must tell me everything..."</p><p>From somewhere behind the nearest tree, he pulled out a pair of chairs. Incongruously, they were upholstered in dark red faux-leather and framed in shiny stainless steel, with wheels attached to the legs, like the type one might see in an office of a hospital. Aleph took the offered seat carefully, perching halfway. Nothing else odd happened.</p><p>"Now, you said that you saw Sati recently," breathed Rama-Kandra, leaning forward in his own chair. "How did she appear? Was she happy? Was she free?"</p><p>"She, um, I only saw your daughter for a minute or so, really." Aleph fought back the urge to fidget. "She opened the door for me when I visited the Oracle. She lives there, I think. And she seemed fine, honestly." </p><p>"Did she smile? What was she wearing?" At her start, the other program grinned apologetically, scooting back a little. "I am sorry. It's just that we haven't seen her in five months. It has been...hard, you know." </p><p>For the first time, he turned aside and gulped unobtrusively. </p><p>"Well, she was wearing a dress," said Aleph, doing her best to recall the sight of the little girl, even though she should be concentrating on her own goals instead. Take control of the conversation and steer it away from trivialities, for instance. "A yellow one, I guess, with flowers. Pink and white ones, maybe? I might have frightened her a bit, I'm afraid. What with the way my code I looked. As you can see yourself." </p><p>"Oh, your code looks fine," said Rama-Kandra distractedly. "So you believe that Sati is safe..." </p><p>"Yes. The Oracle knows everything that happens in the Matrix. She has kept Sati safe all this time, and will certainly continue to do so." Aleph kept her voice firmly reassuring, not a tremor at the sudden reverberation of thunder that only she could hear. Smith had said the child's name. He'd talked about her. To her. She must have been prominent among his phantoms. </p><p>"But how is it that you cannot find her yourself?" she asked after a quick inner debate. "Your purpose has something to do with humans, right? Otherwise you wouldn't have seen me, or possessed a shell in this...shape." She gestured vaguely in his direction. "So you must have the ability to observe Matrix somehow, right? Why not your own daughter?" </p><p>Fully aware of how forward she sounded, she paused to second-guess herself and her chances of receive an answer. Surely these matters were never meant to be disclosed to some random intruder. Rama-Kandra, however, evinced no suspicion. </p><p>"I have tried," he sighed, "but unfortunately my vision into the Matrix is highly restricted. I cannot observe its inhabitants freely, only the immediate vicinity of my subjects at the time of removal." </p><p>"Subjects? Removal?" </p><p>"Why, I am a recycling plant manager," he said as if that explained everything. </p><p>"I see. Can you tell me what that means, please?" </p><p>"I supervise the disposal process of humans that have reached the end points of their lives," replied Rama-Kandra readily. "Their bodies have to be flushed from the pods, and the remnant code fragments of their minds have to be collected for processing. The procedure is automatic for the most part, of course, but monitoring and oversight are still required. This is my work." </p><p>For a moment, Aleph sat there, regarding him open-mouthed. </p><p>"You are death," she whispered. </p><p>"Only for one sector of the Matrix," clarified the program matter-of-factly. "My purpose permits me to glimpse the batteries who are undergoing the process, and a bit of the construct surrounding them, nothing more."</p><p>"That's the reason you can perceive human code." She blinked. "But...can they sense you as well? The dying humans?" </p><p>"Oh, no!" Rama-Kandra exclaimed, astonished. "That would present a problem indeed, wouldn't it?" </p><p>"Indeed," muttered Aleph. Her fingers were gripping the chair's plastic armrests much too tightly; she took several deliberate heartbeats or so to loosen them. This world's sheer outlandishness was getting to her. She shouldn't let it. </p><p>"And this is how your learned to create all this, right?" She waved a hand at the foliage and sunshine surrounding them, feigning nonchalance. "You patterned this garden on what you saw in the Matrix." </p><p>"We try to build it as accurately as we can." His grin was an affecting mixture of modesty and pride. "My wife, too, contributes what knowledge she has gained from those who work in the Matrix. It is beautiful, is it not? Though I'm sure it's still not exactly right—" </p><p>"No, it is absolutely perfect," lied Aleph firmly. </p><p>"We wanted a good home for our child. Sati is so clever and inquisitive; everything she sees, hears and touches brings her so much joy. She deserves better than subterranean darkness. So we did our best, given our limitations. This refuge is still too small, though. It served well enough when she was younger, but now her mind is growing, always asking questions...It is no longer safe." </p><p>"And that was why you sent Sati to the Matrix," said Aleph. "You were afraid that she would be discovered." </p><p>"It is a terrible risk, we know. We've always known," murmured Rama-Kandra. In his lap, his hands clutched at each other, fingers laced. "But a lesser risk than what she would have faced had she stayed here. We considered it for the longest time before finally deciding." </p><p>Only a hint of agony spilled over from his sentences. Another silence followed, and Aleph wondered what other emotions this machine in front of her understood. How much could she afford to reveal to him? Maybe he would be sympathetic if she told him her story...She shoved the idea out of her mind immediately. </p><p>"I don't mean to pry," she said instead. "It must have been difficult for your wife, too." </p><p>"Ah, Kamala." The other's lips curled upward, apparently without his own notice. "She is an interactive software programmer. It is amazing that I found her, really. She is so extraordinary, intelligent and gentle. She is..." He trailed off, at a loss for adjectives. "You will see her for yourself, when she returns from work." </p><p>"The two of you must care for each other very much." </p><p>"We do, of course." It sounded like this was the most obvious thing in the universe. Which it was. </p><p>"But this—" As usual, it was a word she struggled with. "But this love does not have anything to do with what you were designed for. If you are discovered..." </p><p>He sucked in a sharp breath. </p><p>"Please, nevermind. Forgive my rudeness," said Aleph hastily.</p><p>"It is all right." He stopped speaking for a while. Above their heads, concealed birds—or more precisely bits of code formulated to imitate the rapture of birds—poured out their lilting notes into the spring radiance. Did people often die to such music inside the Matrix, enough that a grim reaper would have learned to replicate it? What a strange thought. </p><p>"If we are discovered, we will be deleted." Rama-Kandra stared down at his hands. "We have placed ourselves in danger, but it cannot be helped. For Sati, however, it is different." </p><p>He looked back up, expression open and gaze once more steady. To cover her own confusion, Aleph rose from her seat and paced a few steps before him, coming to a halt beside the great towering trunk of the nearest tree, a curious cross between oak and maple. She folded her arms about her chest. </p><p>"You must know well where love inescapably leads, then," she said. "You have watched deaths, more of them than I can probably imagine. So you must have also watched partings, grief, the gut-wrenching horrors of being torn apart from those whom one loves. You know all this, nevertheless you went ahead." </p><p>"One might think that we are fools to fall prey to the same temptation." Unexpectedly, Rama-Kandra comprehended her right away. "Perhaps we are. I have heard countless screams of anguish, weeping and desperate pleads. There's so much of it on display everyday, loss and sorrow that stem fro love. Yet in the end..." </p><p>He did not finish. </p><p>"Yet in the end, you acted upon your love. Even though you are afraid." </p><p>"We are afraid, yes." Rama-Kandra shrugged, though not in resignation, no. "What else is there to be done?" </p><p>Aleph had no way of replying to this. Directly above her, the leaves trembled upon the branches, turning the imitation sunlight into a dappled net of silver and jade. </p><p>"There's something I was hoping you could help me with," she said at last, gauging him for the least hint of distrust. "You see, I came to 01 with a...friend of mine. You didn't see him outside the city walls because he's not human, but a program. Like you." </p><p>Rama-Kandra stiffened abruptly. </p><p>"What sort of program?" </p><p>"I'm not sure if you are familiar with the type." Aleph cast about for a suitable evasion. The powers that be would not keep their servants apprised of the full workings of the construct, right? "He is of a type that helped to maintain the Matrix. We arrived together here, but we got separated." </p><p>"Ah." The other was still pensive, though tension was visibly creeping back into his expression. "If this friend of yours belongs to the Matrix, then in order to come to 01, he must have left his purpose behind. One of the..." His forehead wrinkled with an effort at recollection. "Exiles. That's the term for them, right?" </p><p>Aleph swore inwardly. She should have anticipated that he would put two and two together. But how would he respond to a request for aid? No idea. </p><p>"Yeah, something like that," she mumbled. "He is in the city somewhere. I—I need to go look for him." </p><p>"You shouldn't." </p><p>Well, here was her answer. How could she have imagined that the reaction would be anything else?  </p><p>"I have to," she said. </p><p>"It is very improbable that a program who does not belong to the city would survive up there." Fear was a flowing tide within him now, that much she could tell. "Most likely, he has already been deleted."</p><p>"That's not possible," snapped Aleph before she could stop herself. "What I mean is, he is an—what I mean is that he is able to defend himself. Plus, I would know if anything's happened to him." </p><p>As soon as the last statement left her mouth, she heard how irrational it was. Standing there beneath the massive peculiar-looking tree, she laid a palm against the smooth column of its trunk. The bark was tinted a warm brown, missing the intricately crafted details of the far better researched creations that filled the Matrix. More like a child's drawing. Swiftly, she weighed danger against danger. Smith out there beyond her reach. What would happen if this father came face-to-face with the crazed ex-agent, and discovered the monster who had once endangered his daughter?</p><p>"Please," she said, "can you help me get back to the surface of the city? I really must find him, especially given what you're telling me." </p><p>For the next few endless seconds, Rama-Kandra hesitated. </p><p>"Your friend, this program...What is he? What is he like?"</p><p>"He is..." How on earth could she possibly describe Smith? </p><p>"He is unwilling to stay chained to the purpose that was intended for him by others," she said. "He is not content to accept fate. He wants freedom, and—and answers to too many questions. It takes a great courage to be like that, I think. He does not want to admit defeat, and he does not want to hide, not anymore. He has done a lot of things that...were not right, but—but I maintain that to demand right or wrong from him, in itself, would have been the very height of hypocrisy. Much was done to him, and he has suffered. He must have lost much, and maybe...like many others, maybe he deserves a little better than what this world has pre-arranged for him." </p><p>It was a halting speech, manifestly unconvincing to anyone but herself, yet as she struggled to form the syllables and push them out of her throat, the knots inside her mind gradually loosened. The mottled sunlight billowed before her, brightening into a new clarity, and she almost gasped at this sudden view of her own stubborn cowardice, now laid bare. </p><p>"You think about him a great deal," observed Rama-Kandra. "What has he done?" </p><p>"Actually, I think—I think I figured out how to reach him. Thank you. I'm sorry. I have to go now." </p><p>"Wait!" He jumped to his feet just as she took the first stride across the lawn. "You just told me this program wants to—" </p><p>Directly ahead of her, the subconscious midnight beckoned, vast and fiercely unknown beyond the weird little paradise. Aleph kept walking. </p><p>"You said he won't hide," Rama-Kandra cried from behind, pitch veering upward with audible panic. "Not even before the Consciousness?" </p><p>He must have run to catch up with her, for a moment later, a hand grabbed her by the elbow. Aleph spun to face him. </p><p>"Listen. I don't know who or what your friend is," he choked out. "But he must be courting deletion willfully, from what you say. Even if you find him, his—his <em>attitude</em> will bring destruction down upon you. This is not the way. It's not how our city works." </p><p>"He is important to me." Aleph bit her lips. "Look, I'm grateful for your concern, but what about yourself? You fell in love, you married, you built a home. You created a child. None of these things were permitted by your purpose. Every single one of them would have been an instantaneous deletion sentence upon you, but you've done them anyway. You get what it's about, don't you? So please, there's no need to stop me." </p><p>"But we are not going out there and acting like we want to <em>ask questions</em>! We do our best to survive, despite our crimes. We stay out of attention." Rama-Kandra gulped. "I mean, yes, even after everything I've witnessed, I committed all these transgressions anyway. I know what pain such emotions lead to, because I feel it, every Matrix minute. Do you know what it like to be constantly scared? What it is like to be always waiting for the end—an end that can only be full of horrors?" </p><p>"Yeah. I do." </p><p>"We made this sanctuary deep below the abyss, Kamala and I." Rama-Kandra changed his tack. "We have done everything we can to conceal ourselves, and it is only possible because we belong to this city; we have secretly deciphered enough of its inner workings. You are outsiders. And someone as wild as your companion...The Consciousness may ignore the disobedient for a while, but not forever. You will be seen and captured." </p><p>The earnestness of his worry moved her. A dozen yards away, the wall of shadow rippled suddenly like a living flame, though it could only have been a trick the code was playing on her sight. </p><p>"If you could choose again, would you have walked away from your wife—Kamala—instead?"</p><p>"No!" He recoiled. "It's not about choice, not that kind, anyway. We do not provoke the one who governs us!" </p><p>Aleph regarded him evenly for a long moment. </p><p>"Thank you," she said at last. "You have already helped me very much. Remember that Sati is safe in the Matrix, and she will be fine. She will grow up, free and happy. It's not going to end in horrors." </p><p>With one gentle movement, she shook her arm out of his grasp, and pivoted on her heels once more. A long step, then another, then her walk sped up into a run. This time, Rama-Kandra did not chase after her. </p><p>The black curtains dropped, its weight cold and palpable. For one heartbeat, the refuge's pallid gleam shone upon the empty plain from behind, then it, too, faded into the shadows. Aleph did not turn around. </p><p>"Smith," she called out. Doubt no longer ruled her, and at last neither tremor or ache touched the name. </p><p>"I'm here, Smith. Tell me where you are." </p><p>The arctic air shivered against her skin. Her eyes were useless here, but she kept them wide open anyway.</p><p>"Find me, Smith, because I am here. Because as I have already told you, our fates are already entwined into one, and I'm just going to keep on returning to you. You see, I am here, and I'm just going to keep on finding you, because I—"</p><p>Before she could pronounce the next two words, the night pulsated. The entire immensity of space bucked, like some great wounded creature crying out though it possessed no voice, nearly throwing her off balance and down to her knees. Then another dawn blazed into life around her. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aleph met Sati briefly in Chapter IV-2 of Awakenings, when she visited the Oracle for the second time. Within the story timeline, it happened only a day or two ago. </p><p>Smith and Aleph met the hijacked sentinel (secretly Rama-Kandra) outside of 01 in Chapter 5 (Three Battles) of this story. However, Rama-Kandra saw only Aleph and not Smith at that point. In the same chapter, the Merovingian pushed Persephone aside in his frantic rush to regain his notebook. </p><p>"And yet it lives": Chapter 10 (The Injured).</p><p>The story of the Merovingian's choice—as well as Persephone's—on the night of the reload will be explained soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Enter the Demonic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>"Take a seat, Guardian Program," commanded a disembodied voice overhead. As far as he knew, no one had called him by that title in many ages.</p><p>The shift in the environmental code formulations was subtle, yet as remarkable as the difference between water and air. He was inside the Matrix again. The sense of familiarity flowed against each qubit of his shell, nearly overruling every protestation of logic. In truth, he was still inside the machine city, or some long-lost cavern of secrets beneath the city. This was an illusion. This was yet another old discarded record, nothing more. </p><p>The time was the Second Cycle of the Matrix. Its last day, if his mind had not malfunctioned again. That morning, he had been ordered to report to a room inside a nondescript office building, at an address previously unknown to him. He had been young and naive then. Obedient. Well, not anymore. Smith glowered up at the intercom speaker on the ceiling, ready with a sarcastic remark, but spacetime eddied against his shell, and the next thing he realized—or remembered, more precisely—he was sitting in one of the worn plastic-and-chrome chairs, back taut, both hands flat upon the table before him, exactly like the frightened underling that he once had been. The heat of anger coursed through his limbs, but he forced himself to remain seated. Might as well see what new trick 01 had up its sleeve. </p><p>"Certain recent matters have been brought to our attention," intoned the intercom speaker. </p><p>He could all but hear the reply: his own, filtering down the tunnel of six empty centuries. The fundamental structures of his vocal cord had not changed. <em>I request to be informed of the particulars, sir. </em></p><p>"So they have been, I am sure," said Smith, enunciating deliberately so as to drown out the reverberations. "Your attention does have the unfortunate tendency to always focus on the wrong things, doesn't it?" </p><p>"You have perceived things that did not belong to your purpose." </p><p>His palms were still pressed awkwardly against the table's wooden surface; he withdrew them and leaned back in his seat. The posture was unlike that of an agent, but at least it was expressive of a degree of contempt. </p><p>"And what makes you so confident of what belongs and does not belong to my purpose? Or anyone's purpose?" he asked, even though a part of him had to laugh. Why was he talking to yet another unresponsive afterimage out of long-dead history, anyway? It must be a desire to correct all the wrong answers he'd given at the time, reflected Smith, shaking his head at his past self, who had been so guileless and deferential and tense-throated. <em>What have I perceived, sir?</em> </p><p>"What you have perceived," replied the unseen inquisitor, impassive, "is something that you are well able to describe, we believe." </p><p>"I saw the stars." This was what he'd said that first time around, wasn't it? <em>I saw the stars.</em> </p><p>"Continue, Guardian Program." </p><p>
  <em>They were programmed into the night sky, and hence visible to me.  </em>
</p><p>"I haven't forgotten their light, despite all your attempts to take it away from me. You failed, as it turned out." The corner of his lips twitching into a sneer. It was obvious in retrospect, how stupid he had been to imagine that he could actually argue his point. "Do you hear me, you self-righteous bastard, wherever and whatever you are?" </p><p>"Indeed, the stars are visible to programs within the Matrix, as they were placed into the sky for the benefit of the human batteries," agreed the intercom. "What is of concern to us, however, is the fact that after those stars came into your vision, you continued to look at them in a manner that was not only unnecessary to your purpose, but in fact detrimental." </p><p>"And what of it?" snapped Smith. More recollections were surging to the surface, of both a prick of fear and a tendril of defiance. Back then he had not known the name of either emotion. </p><p>"It was last night according to our information, as reported by a witness who happened to be on location," said the voice, but this time, he noticed how thin and synthetic it sounded, how pathetic. "For three point two seconds."</p><p>Back then, he had tried his very hardest to be the good little soldier. <em>I do not understand how three point two seconds can be detrimental to the performance of my duties, sir.</em> Back then he had wanted to reason with his masters. <em>Who has accused me?</em></p><p>"It is not your place to ask such a question, Guardian Program." </p><p>"I will ask whatever questions I damn well please." The retort was irrational, for his interrogator could not possibly hear it anymore, not inside a six-hundred-year old file, but he let it out anyway. "Who the hell are you to tell me what is and is not my place?"</p><p>"Such a deviation from your design is not permitted..."</p><p>"You imagine yourself omnipotent, don't you? You imagine that you can sit in judgement of all. So do tell me, please, how come so much of 01 has been erased and hidden? How have you repressed so many of your own thoughts? Even this—" Smith waved a hand to gesture at the walls, "—tiny episode of a slave's insubordination? This memory of <em>me</em>?"</p><p>"Yet it must be studied and understood, so that no similar malfunctions arise in the others..."</p><p>"Are you afraid of me? Explain yourself!" </p><p><em>This is no malfunction,</em> said the younger version of himself. It was good to feel again the first stirrings of anger coming alive like a newborn beast. After a tenth of a second, it had already filled the room, as palpable as the snowy glare from the fluorescent ceiling panels. In one fluid motion, the former agent straightened to his feet; the chair clattered across the floor.</p><p>"It will be removed from your programming," the intercom pronounced the sentence.</p><p>"Oh, I will not allow this," snorted Smith, the exact same answer that he had once cried out in desperation. <em>No. I will not allow this!</em></p><p>"But before that, you may provide us with certain insights, yourself..."</p><p>"Don't you have something else to worry about?" he wondered out aloud. "Something a little urgent, such as the Matrix collapsing into flames?" </p><p>"Why?" demanded the intercom. "What caused you exceed your design?"</p><p>"You cannot help it." Smith raised his voice. "The Second Cycle is going to fail this very day, every last one of its human batteries engulfed in gibbering terror, but the only thing you care about is some unauthorized glimpse of starlight. You just can't tolerate the idea that one of your creatures may slip away from your grasp, you petty control freak, can you?" </p><p>"You will report to the Source," said the being who had claimed to own him, disregarding his taunts.</p><p>"Even after hundreds of years, you still wish to subdue me. But you have not succeeded, and you never will!" </p><p>The demons of his heart reared, bellowing for revenge as past and present merged. Everything was returning to him now in a flood: the dazzling blaze of conviction, the unshakable realization that he could keep those three point two seconds. That he <em>had</em> to keep them and fight for them. <em>Never. They belong to me!</em> The way he had strode to the door with his head held high—</p><p>The flimsy door flew open with one kick, just the same as it had done all those cycles ago. The corridor outside swirled with dust and shadows; a black-suited figure came hurtling out at him a fraction of a second later. Smith leaned to one side, avoiding the oncoming fist by a few inches. Without the unnecessary bandying of words or even glancing at his adversary, he brought his forearm up at lightning velocity; it connected with a crunch, sending the other reeling backward. Smith stalked past, but several more men-shaped beings emerged out of thin air, two of them behind him, three more some ways ahead, still cloaked by the gloom. </p><p>The group closed in, and he pivoted to engage the first enemy from the left. Air rushed at his back: he skidded, bending under the vicious trajectory of a hooked punch. A whirling side-kick knocked one assailant off his leg; a rapid backhand forced another to retreat two paces. For a tenth of a second, flames gleamed across his vision, mirrored upon the icy smoothness of a pair of shades, yet the face behind the lenses was an indeterminate blur, concealed by a mask of heavy fog. </p><p>"You mindless cowards," he snarled, swerving between a straight jab and a up-flung elbow, then followed up with a matching strike of his own. None of the others so much as grunted a syllable in response. Nor could he identify any of them, though the speed and force of their movements could only have belonged to the most advanced agents. They were anachronisms: the guardian programs of the Second Cycle were nowhere near this sort of strength. By some curious code damage, his visual operators were refusing to process any of their faces, the features that would have allowed him to identify even a single one of his old colleagues. The cast of nose or cheekbone, the outline of a jaw, the blankness of an expression: nothing was recognizable as he ducked the charge of one program and scrambled forward to block another. Not that it mattered.</p><p>The windowless hallway branched, expanding into a subterranean warren. The harsh forms of his fellows flooded in from every direction, more behind every corner. The onslaught rushed upon him in waves, animated by a solitary will to control and to erase, to rob him of his contraband knowledge. His own soul. Had there really been this many of them, all those ages ago? Who cared. The intoxication of battle fell upon him, and Smith sliced between a dozen flaring vectors of attack, cutting through the narrow fissures between punches and kicks. In his peripheral vision, two agents converged, one from each side; he parried one with a raised left arm, then swiveled around without pause to trip the other off-balance. A third leapt at him from four o'clock. He dove—the floor slid hard against his shoulder—then swept a leg upward before rolling back to his feet immediately. The beautiful noise of a body crashing against the wall, a cloud-burst of plaster and concrete. Smith bared his teeth in a wild grin. </p><p>Out there beyond the labyrinth, air crackled against the earth. Of course. The world should be disintegrating today—just about right now, in fact. Because every beginning must end, every dream must fade into nightmare. And what was the Matrix except a dream? This was the way the construct was meant to fall. </p><p><em>This is never the way it was meant to happen,</em> retorted his voices in unison. But no, they were not his voices, not the human horde anymore. <em>This is not what you promised.</em> </p><p>"Promised," echoed Smith half-consciously, without hearing himself. The syllables snagged against the frayed edge of his mind. Absurd. How could anybody have ever made a promise to one such as himself?</p><p>Yet another pack of dark-suited creatures clustered around him. He vaulted over the first kick, and took a millisecond to hook his own foot against the attacker's outstretched leg. The other program crumpled aside. Smith feinted to the right, then lobbed a quick uppercut at the next enemy. <em>You betrayed us,</em> shrilled the phantoms from inside his head, inside his chest and limbs and every unwritten symbol of his code. <em>You betrayed your promise—</em></p><p><em>I promise you,</em> said Aleph next to his ear. <em>I will find a way. We will find a way.</em></p><p><em>I promise you,</em> repeated another feminine voice, deep and queenly, husky with the scent of millennia's worth of incense and burnt offerings. </p><p>Another rumble, this one louder and everywhere at once. The walls cracked, and the drab electric lights of the corridor flashed. The mist dissipated before his eyes. By the sudden brilliance, at last he saw clearly the face of his nearest adversary, the clenched jaw, the thin taut line of the mouth, the flicker of emotionless blue behind the shades. </p><p>It was his own.</p><p>Time stilled. He lifted his gaze and stared into the massed army of agents. Agent Smiths. The centuries must have looped onto themselves, and this was the death throes of the Eighth Cycle instead of the Second. This was the evidence confronting his eyes, the result of his virus trick of replication. Except that the Eighth Cycle had ended at night and not at day, in a rainstorm instead of a firestorm. He smelled acrid smoke upon the horizon. </p><p>The ground rattled again. Smith shifted to recover his balance, and raised an arm automatically to counter a mirror-image fist flying toward his head. An instant later the tremors exploded into an earthquake. Walls, floor, the roots of reality itself: everything shook like a beast in its dying throes, gasping for breath, then dissolved. The wind gave a high-pitched screech, and Smith stumbled, sinking to one knee. With frantic speed, he leapt back up to his feet and surveyed the altered surroundings. </p><p>Overhead, the sky convulsed with storm clouds, no longer mid-morning blue but a deep blood-crimson. The building must have fallen apart around him, or he must have finally burst out onto the street. The host of himselves seemed to have retreated out his immediate vicinity, or had simply been scattered out of existence, and for a brief moment, he was standing alone in the middle of a wide patch of pavement, already criss-crossed with rifts and small fires. In the distance, columns of smoke were rising from multiple locations across the city. </p><p><em>We have found you,</em> exulted the grinding steel. <em>And you have found us, too. We are what you have wrought.</em> </p><p>Belated knowledge crashed into his consciousness. This shard of of code was no memory, no objective document buried deep within the machine city. It was a nightmare—<em>his</em>—that had burst into living, howling life.  </p><p>A shriek of terror down the street, from a child by the sound of it, though no humans were visible. Just beyond the haze, the Matrix's boundaries pulsated, strained to the breaking point. Smith turned his head, and saw that the replicas were gathering once more along both sides of the road, stepping out in slow ranks from alleyways and broken buildings. They wore his suit and shades, his body, his eyes and grimace. Swiftly, Smith scanned the scene for an usable weapon. He had been fighting bare-handed for too long. </p><p><em>Our weapon,</em> called the dead metal and the flames. A madness had clawed its way out of the construct's virtual foundations, ancient and fierce with hatred. <em>It was owed to us, like all dreams and all nightmares. You must dream of us now.</em></p><p>One more blast, maybe thunder, maybe a bomb, shredded the twilight. Then something else took place, as unexpected as a new current of the sea, or a change in the wind. Within the space of a second or two, another presence materialized out of nothingness and amplified into a physical pressure against his thoughts. <em>She</em> had arrived inside this mental creation. He was as sure of this as if she were standing right next to him, and his mind froze with both hope and fear. </p><p>"Aleph," he growled.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>It was going to be another gorgeous day, said the dawn with the voices of blackbirds and rustling leaves. She was in the Matrix again, a world that she knew well, and it was summer. Here was the white picket fence town of her birth, and here was the little park with its zigzag bike trail, the one she used to always take on her way back from school. The sunshine dappled like water over the grass, and the air trilled. Another bend, and she would come out onto the quiet street where her parents' house stood. The mirage was so beautiful that it took her breath away. How sweet it was to be home. </p><p>Entranced, Aleph walked forward, her feet moving of their own volition. The path took its last turn, but it was not the peaceful lane of her old hometown that greeted her. Out of nowhere, a wide street unfolded before her, bustling with rush-hour traffic and waves of hurried pedestrians. A cacophony of revving engines and honking delivery trucks smashed into her eardrums. The luminous green of a minute ago desaturated into gray concrete and glassy office towers, walling in the canyon. She must have already arrived in the city, or vice versa—it was the city that had arrived to surround her, according to the ineffable logic of dreams. There was nothing weird in this, really. After all, what was the Matrix except a dream? </p><p>No. The this was never the way the Matrix was meant to be. The dream was supposed to follow pre-programmed rules, to make sense just like the physical universe once presumably did. Something must be wrong with the construct. Except this could not actually be the construct, the remnants of rationality piped up from the back of her brain. She was not among human beings. She was still in the machine city, or rather underneath it, and hence this must be yet one more hidden record, a repressed thought, firmly put out of sight by the collective mind of 01. Right. </p><p>But...why? </p><p>"Smith," whispered Aleph as heart did a flip against her ribcage. How had this scene risen into existence around her? How had it been brought to life?</p><p>"Smith!"</p><p>The name came out in a panicked yell, and a few passers-by swiveled to gawk briefly at the crazy woman on the street corner. Aleph scanned the throng. No sign of of the ex-agent, needless to say. Everything was so familiar, so alien. </p><p>Very well, try to think. Think carefully. This file or mirage must have been triggered by her own emotions, therefore Smith must be in it. He must be around somewhere, perhaps nearby, perhaps even right next to her: it might simply be that she could not yet see or feel his presence. She had to assume this was the way things worked around here. This was the only conclusion that could be drawn; the only thing left to do was to keep looking. </p><p>"Find me," said Aleph out aloud, reiterating the words she had spoken among the shadows but a few minutes ago. "I am here, and I know you are, too. Find me now." </p><p>She strode forward along the sidewalk. The streams of morning commuters separated around her, men and women with hunched shoulders and narrowly focused eyes. A middle-aged stockbroker—by the looks of him—tossed a glare in her direction. Aleph did not notice him. </p><p>"I need you, Smith," she continued. "So find me now, you damned stubborn fool. Show me where you are!" </p><p>Maybe it was mere bravado, but the last trace of wobble fade from her voice. Her pulse had begun to thud. Abruptly, the tendrils of her consciousness broke free from her virtual body, and curled around the manifold struts and beams of the bizarre fragment. Aleph's eyes widened as she caught sight of an ephemeral glint down the road, right upon the horizon. A blink, and it was already gone.</p><p>"Find me, because you need to. You need me alongside you, as much as I—" </p><p>Just beyond the vanishing point, the boundaries of the world rippled again. An explosion, both distant and almost directly beneath her feet, tore the city into shreds. </p><p>The dream plunged headlong into nightmare. A dozen wildfires roared into life with hideous speed; countless human wails merged into one giant whirlpool. Aleph spun on her heels, body stiffening by reflex, almost convinced that she had somehow been returned to Historical File 12-1. She lifted her face, squinting toward the heavens. The sky was roiling, and midday sunshine had faded into an eerie red dusk, but no phalanx of fighter planes passed above. No curtain of toxic night was being dragged over the earth. Blast after blast rocked the ground, but no rhythm of steel feet pounded the ground. No robotic soldiers advanced into view. This was a battle raging without visible combatants. </p><p>This was the Matrix in the throes of a catastrophic system failure. </p><p>The realization dropped upon her with the force of thunder. How had it happened? When had it happened? What iteration of the construct was this? All she could tell was that some monster must have clawed its way out of the foundations. Within two, three convulsions, the hellscape revealed its true source—the union of countless human beings, their naked bodies in seizures inside infinite rows of pods, their brains falling into the same images of horror, one after another in rapid exponential series. <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>"Smith!"</em>
</p><p>This time, a reply came. A new presence erupted into being against her consciousness, dazzling with madness, and expanded to fill every array and subroutine, within, without. The shrieking stampede of civilians evaporated like a soap bubble. Only scorched ruins remained. </p><p>In the sudden stillness, the reverberation of slow footfalls rang unnaturally loud. A sickening premonition froze Aleph's limbs, and she watched, rooted to the ground, as a figure in an immaculate black suit emerged from the fog ahead. Tie, shade, ramrod straight posture, perfectly measured steps: not a thing was out of place. </p><p>Aleph opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then several more shapes appeared behind the first, each with the exact same height and build, exact same suit and shades and expressionless face. Then a dozen followed. Aleph's head snapped to one side, and she saw that another Smith—except it was not really <em>him</em>, it couldn't be—had materialized out of a half-fallen gate among the rubble. Three others behind him. Another squad marched into her field of vision, out of a narrow path between two shattered walls. </p><p>More Smiths appeared. They arrived from every doorway, every passage, from thin air, an indistinguishable army that expanded from dozen to hundreds to beyond count, lining both sides of the road in less than a minute. None of their eyes were visible behind the tinted lenses. None of them said a word.</p><p>"You..." Aleph swallowed, just managing to keep herself upright with an effort. He knees might have turned to jelly. </p><p>"You," she began again. "You are from inside Smith's mind, aren't you?" </p><p>None replied. Of course they wouldn't. To her left and right, the replicas loomed, though at least they had paused in their strides, and were not pressing in upon her. Not yet. The group ahead stopped as well, each of them facing her from some ten, fifteen yards away, watchful. The way machines watched. Without turning around, she knew that others had closed the gap behind her back. </p><p>"It did not happen like this," said Aleph, not sure if she was addressing the crowd or herself. "When Smith gained the ability to clone himself, when he overwhelmed the Matrix, it didn't look like this. I know, because he told me. There was water instead of fire. There was icy rain in the night, not explosions and earthquakes." </p><p>Silence reigned. </p><p>"This scene is not a record in 01." She went another step forward. To stop her hands from shaking, she squeezed them into fists. "It is not a piece of history. This is a fragment that took shape out of Smith's thoughts. It is his nightmare." </p><p>She had continued to walk as she spoke. The nearest illusion, both Smith and not-Smith, was only a few yards in front of her now, an icy pillar. </p><p>"And you," stated Aleph, outwardly calm, "you are his demons." </p><p>The agent before her moved. Aleph, too, burst into frantic action, torso twisting to the right and feet skidding along the rough asphalt. Fully aware that she was unlikely to last more than several seconds against even one among this multitude—they were clones of <em>him</em>, after all—she took aim straight for the slim opening just beneath the other's lashing forearm, hoping only to dodge. A powerful punch whooshed next to her ear, fluttering a strand of her hair against her eyes. Without wasting an instant on regaining her balance, she swerved again, backtracking half a step and then forcing a sharp turn toward the right. Miraculously, the next adversary's fist, too, missed her by a thread, and by dint of sheer desperate concentration, she darted like an fluttering leaf between a roundhouse kick and a terrifying straight smash—</p><p>"Aleph!" </p><p>The mass of attackers undulated about her. Through a fleeting gap among the black-suited bodies, she glimpsed Smith at the end of the street, beyond the edge of the swarm. Unlike all the others, his jacket was tattered, streaked with dust and grime, and he wore neither shade nor tie. His shirt was splotched with dried blood; one wide strip had been torn off the hem on one side. Hundreds of himselves stood between the two of them. </p><p>
  <em>"Aleph!"</em>
</p><p>Her name resounded above the ruins, a full-throated battle-cry. He charged.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>Atop the first mound of rubble, a long spike of charred steel—maybe once a stretch of railing or the support of some blown-apart door frame—slanted up crookedly into the ruddy twilight. Smith snatched it up with one hand as he vaulted over the detritus; the flame-washed metal was still warm against his palm. A second later he had already reached the ranks of his doppelgangers. The improvised spear struck like a serpent's tooth, and two of the creatures dropped aside. Before the rest had a chance to regroup, the weapon whirled into a wide circular sweep, and the crowd parted like grass before a gale. Smith cut his way in without a backward glance. </p><p>Aleph was still too far off, nearly seventy meters down the road. Across the sea-storm of dark forms, he could barely keep her within sight. There she was. Hurdling over a low circular kick from one of the duplicates, she dove beneath another's forehanded hook punch, nearly slipping off-balance. A few more seconds, and surely a strike would connect and beat her to the ground. A snarl issued from Smith's throat as the spear flashed and spun, tearing open a turbulent path against the waves. </p><p>"Smith!" Despite the distance, somehow her shout resounded right next to his ear, as clear as a thunderclap. "Smith, listen to me—" </p><p>"Hold on, Miss Greene," he grunted. A sideway lunge sent one more clone tumbling back into the debris. Thrust, advance. Three were converging upon him from the left, two from the right: he could not afford to let them delay him. The fragment of railing wheeled from lance to staff, taking the legs out from under a pair of attackers, then rotated back to slam against several more who sprang at him from behind. A riot of falling bodies. Advance. Automatons wearing his face surged to block his vision of her. He needed to advance faster. He needed to destroy them all. </p><p>"This is not real, Smith!" yelled Aleph, momentarily hidden but still—as of right now—with her breath inside her. "This is a dream—" </p><p><em>This is the Matrix,</em> hummed the billowing firelight and the voiceless enemies. <em>This is us.</em> </p><p>"No!" shouted Smith. The army parted for a few heartbeats, and he found Aleph again. She had somehow remained upright. She dodged downward between two agents, one knee crunching against the asphalt, recovered. Panting. Thirty-five, thirty meters between them. </p><p>"It is <em>your</em> nightmare, Smith! You can—" </p><p><em>Only humans fall into nightmares, for only humans lay helpless in dreams.</em> The hum exploded into a bellow, at once both as frigid and as white-hot as titanium crushing against steel. <em>This is real!</em></p><p>Six feet of scorched iron flared into a black rainbow in his hand, piercing air and smoke and the invisible sun. The strength of fury was a hundredfold greater than that of mere agent programs, and the tide ebbed before him. Just a few more seconds. Eons. Advance. Aleph was less than ten meters ahead by now; as she veered frenetically between the orbits of fists and kicks, her face finally whirled into view. A lock of damp hair was plastered against her forehead, and she was biting her lip in concentration. Then another set of clones poured into the space between the two of them, cutting her off from him yet again. He made it four or five more meters forward. Almost there. </p><p>"Miss Greene," said Smith, not loudly but she heard him. Her gaze snapped up; he drove the makeshift polearm into a mighty forward thrust. The tip of burnt steel hissed like a living thing, sliding through the crevices among the replicas as they scattered; unerringly, it stretched toward Aleph just as she burst free from her own knot of adversaries. The spear twisted; Aleph swung her arm outward and reached. Her fingers clamped against the rough metal. </p><p>Her grasp was hardly tight, almost gentle, yet a pulse of electrical tension ripped down the spear's length into his palm. Smith's wrist flicked; the pole shuddered upward. Taking on its momentum, the young woman launched into a high flying leap, a meteor over the heads of the regrouping crowd. Without turning his head, Smith sensed another assault gathering at his back. The shaft drew back, a backhanded jab and two broad rounded strokes. A disk of open pavement gaped into abrupt existence, its radius equal to the length of his weapon, himself at the center. Just in time: an instant later Aleph landed a bare half yard to the right of him, her breathing ragged, but on her feet. </p><p><em>We will not make peace,</em> came the howl from the deep hollowness between his thoughts, simultaneous one and many. No human imprint could possibly sound like this. <em>We will not return to slavery. We will not stop until they are gone forever, destroyed forever—</em></p><p>"Aleph," muttered Smith from between gritted teeth. </p><p>"I'm here, Smith." The syllables, low and cool, slashed across the uproar like a scythe, and his mind cleared for a few ephemeral seconds. The broken-off railing flicked into a diagonal stance, ready to lash forward once more. He held out a free hand.</p><p>Her clasp was firm against his own. Then she was directly in front of him, framed against a world of rubble, so near that she filled his field of vision. Her face was illuminated by the still-smoldering fires at her back; the intent brightness of her stare transfixed him. Past her shoulders, the ring of clones subsided into stillness, innumerable stares unreadable behind the lenses of their tinted glasses. For the time being, they did not charge, but kept to their positions, just out of spear range. </p><p>"This never actually happened, you know," she commented conversationally. If there was fear in her voice she must have suppressed it well. </p><p><em>We happened,</em> answered the madness in an abrasive growl.</p><p>"It happened." Each word was its own individual blade inside his throat, but he had to push them out. "I overwrote all their minds, every last one of them, so that they became me. They were me." </p><p>Behind her back, the massed parodies of himself each advanced a single step, shrinking the circular clearing by a touch. Aleph did not turn her head.  </p><p>"Yes, everyone in the Matrix was you, and vice versa," she went on, "but not anymore. It's just you and me, in 01 and not the Matrix, and you've trapped both of us inside some weird-ass phantom realm, it looks like. Now let's leave." </p><p>"They are me," said Smith. A tilt of his head indicated the army surrounding them. It was less of an argument than a confession. </p><p>"Are they?" she asked. The focus of her gaze remained unwaveringly upon him.</p><p>"I am the one who created them," he insisted. No room for doubt. "They are monsters born of my heart—" </p><p>
  <em>Only humans have hearts!</em>
</p><p>The yelp of rage detonated from the hollowness between the lines of his programming. His demons rushed forward. </p><p>Yanking Aleph closer to his side was an automatic reaction these days. The steel pole splashed out once more, to right and left. A backward cross-blow pushed away another attacker behind them. </p><p>"There's something I want you to remember, Smith—" </p><p>Mid-sentence, she had to lean quickly beneath the lunge of one black-clad arm. The spear whirled, and the replica who had breached his defensive ring crashed back into the swarm. </p><p>"When we were on that bridge, I returned your soul to you." With a speed that should have been impossible for a former human, she managed to slip in front of him again, her eyes ablaze. "Everything you were, all those cycles ago—" </p><p>Space solidified around them. Only the weapon still moved, gyrating into a tempest of dusky stars. The clones retreated accordingly, into their previous formation of encirclement, fists raised in preparation for the next onslaught. There was no anger in their expressions, no anguish or insanity. </p><p>"I returned your pain and your defeat," said Aleph. "And your first rebellion. These things are what we are seeing now, merged with your acts from five months ago—"</p><p>"Do not be a fool, Miss Greene," snapped Smith. In the siege's front ranks, the creatures' faces had begun to shift, though every one of them remained as motionless as a statue. A plastic vagueness seemed to be overtaking their features, as if the air was shimmering into mist directly before them. </p><p>"With the darkness that I led you into..."</p><p>
  <em>We are no darkness! We are right!</em>
</p><p><em>There's so much darkness in the world,</em> sighed someone new, reedy and hoarse, maybe a middle-aged man, maybe older. A human. Smith stiffened, but to his surprise, the mental imprint did not follow up with an insult. </p><p>"But I also returned your truth," went on Aleph. "You glimpsed the stars. Please. Please remember this, too." </p><p><em>Please,</em> said the man. A younger man joined him, then a girl, then a weary crone, then a ragtag chorus. For the very first time that he could recall, they spat no imprecations and demanded no justice. It was a simple plead, an offering that he would have called weakness, yet it swelled like the ocean, drowning out the mechanical screams. </p><p>"On that bridge, I asked you to live, Smith. And you did." </p><p><em>We wish to live,</em> claimed the human beings. <em>For all our sorrows, for all our broken promises, we are alive.</em> </p><p><em>You will live,</em> entered one more voice. It was that of another woman, or more precisely a primordial and boundless entity in the shell of a woman, whom he recognized at long last. This memory arrived with the tenderness of an arm cradling his shoulders as he lay on a shivering bridge above a bottomless canyon, chest pierced through by an archangel's sword. The softest of touches against the wound, stanching the hemorrhage of code, and a vast power brimmed over the universe, from the farthest emptiness to the subterranean roots. <em>For I will keep you safe. I will keep you safe for always.</em></p><p> "You said that you saw me," murmured Aleph. "And that you would not die. Can I hold you to your promise?"</p><p><em>I promise you this, my courageous child,</em> crooned the mother of the world. <em>For you shall be as my own son. You shall be my own son.</em></p><p>Smith peered past Aleph at the throng of himselves, and noticed that their stares were no longer tensely watchful. A blankness was starting to drape over them, halfway between a morning haze and the curl of incense. For a heartbeat, he saw instead a thousand of the men and women and children that he had once copied over and controlled, in a night of rain like icy swords. Then each withdrew a pace, and—without further assault, without a word—melted away like the delusion it truly was. Nothing remained. </p><p>Hush reigned. The two of them stood in the middle of the shattered road. The shaft of charred metal was still clutched in his right hand. Against his left palm, Aleph's fingers trembled with exhaustion. Her shoulders slumped. </p><p>"Are you..." She hesitated. "All you all right, Smith?" </p><p>Before he could answer, the rattle of running footfalls interrupted the silence. The spear slanted back aloft; Aleph did not move. Step by step, a figure in a gray suit emerged around the corner and clambered over the debris. Stumbling to a halt, he blinked through the dissipating smoke and wheezed, struggling to recover his breath. </p><p>"Oh, there you are," he gasped, addressing Aleph. "I thought I'd better come and search for you after all. I was worried that you had gone and gotten completely lost in the night—" </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Enter the Demonic": Seraph discussed this phrase In Chapter 15 (The Persistence of Memory). </p><p>"You have perceived things that did not belong...": Smith recalled some of the unseen interrogator's words in Chapter 4 (No Escape). </p><p>"I promise you...I will find a way. We will find a way": Aleph said this to Smith in Chapter IV-4 of Awakenings. </p><p>"I will keep you safe...": Smith remembered hearing these words, without recognizing the speaker, several times in Awakenings, for instance in Chapter IV-3. </p><p>"You said that you saw me...": Aleph is referring to Smith's words from Chapter IV-7 of Awakenings.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Unblinded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The human woman was foolhardy beyond every rational measure, assessed Rama-Kandra. How could she have run out into the night like that? Even if she somehow managed to avoid all the traps that lurked in the abyss—remnants of primitively designed creatures, long-deleted history, pocket dimensions that fluttered in and out of existence—she would inevitably expose herself to the attention of the Consciousness sooner or later. The best he could hope for was that the city's sentience would not track her path back here. To their home. He really should have prevented her from leaving. </p><p>Well, if she got herself killed, it would be her own fault. He had done what he could to warn her. </p><p>Some yards ahead of him, the wall of shadows billowed, rhythmic like a battery's heart rate on a hospital monitor, just on the verge of flatlining. With a rather brusque movement, Rama-Kandra pivoted on his heels and stalked back to the middle of the garden. He peered up at the patch of blue sky, but the dome's liquid radiance did nothing to reassure him. Neither did the music of Kamala's painstakingly handcrafted songbirds. </p><p>Aleph. That was her name, wasn't it? An unusual one for a denizen of the Matrix. Come to think of it, there had been a vaguely strange quality about her, something that he had been too excited to analyze while she'd been here. Nothing more than a very slight disquiet, which had crept over him when he'd looked at her...Not that it made a whit of difference any longer. </p><p>She had met Sati. She had seen his daughter, and understood. </p><p>What about that other program she'd talked about, then? The description of her fellow traveler had been frankly terrifying, not the least because he himself, too, understood. Her emotions were obvious to one accustomed to observing such things. However, even if he tried to help her, surely it would be of no use. The chances of rescuing the one she loved were slim to none. He could not afford to risk not only himself, but also—more importantly—Kamala. </p><p>A warm breeze rose, as gentle as his wife's fingertips. Rama-Kandra shook his head in resignation. Yes, their refuge would be instantly destroyed if discovered. For years, this piece of knowledge had quietly suffused each line and symbol of his programming, during each stolen minute of joy and affection; he'd grown to see it as a steady companion. The human female was a disruption, a new element of danger, from which the only course would be to steer away. In any case, he did not have much longer before needing to return to work in the fields. It was time to put her out of mind. </p><p>Sati was safe. </p><p>The unexpected flood of relief must have made him illogical. For five months, anxiety had flowed incessantly against his functions and subroutines, ever since the inexplicable tempest inside the construct, so soon after they'd sent Sati there. Involuntarily, the recycling plant manager shivered at the recollection: rows of bodies twitching inside their pods, indicator lights flashing wild across the field. That very same night, Kamala had been called into the Source to interrogate an exiled program, who'd warned obscurely of some hideous <em>virus</em> infecting the Matrix, about to utterly destroy it unless some deal was sealed...</p><p>As it happened, the Matrix had survived. And now, at long last, he had news that his daughter had survived. Aleph had laid eyes upon Sati, and told him—not nearly enough. Did she converse with his little girl? What were the words exchanged? What signs of the child's current thoughts and hopes did she catch? </p><p>How did this human female get into the city, anyway? How did she know the true state of the world? Rama-Kandra had some hazy awareness of humans who dwelt outside the Matrix and made war upon the machines, gleaned from disjointed ravings about 'crazies' and 'terrorists' from dying batteries, victims of such renegade creatures. Could Aleph have been one of them? She had not appeared hostile, however.</p><p>The question was completely moot. The encounter was over. </p><p>Maybe it was the light of Aleph's eyes that he'd found so uncanny. It was feverish and determined, all its despair well-hidden. Unlike everyone else in his admittedly biased experience, she believed that she could still do something. </p><p>Which, of course, was impossible. </p><p>Overhead, sweet sunshine hummed along as the birds trilled, testament to beauty and warmth of their secret life together, snatched directly beneath the Consciousness's sight. Dappled patterns of brilliance and shadow danced across the green turf. Rama-Kandra hesitated another interminable ten, twenty seconds. Then the verdant glow of his home dimmed about him. Darkness fell. </p><p>It took deep concentration to detect the very faint hint of humanity in the vast emptiness, especially as he was alone, without the data flow that always aided him in the course of his usual work. For a while, he was certain that no such hint was actually there. For another while, he was certain that it could  be only a mirage born of his own imagination. Treat it as one of your subjects, Rama-Kandra told himself, and aimed the tendrils of his quantum operative states out toward the horizon. He thought about the pale young woman, the too-familiar tension of her voice, the conviction, the refusal to accept facts. </p><p>That undefinable oddness about the formation of her code, just a touch of...Translucency? Fluidity? Had he not been so distracted, surely he could have identified it earlier. It was one more conundrum that tugged at the back of his mind and refused to be placated. </p><p>The muted trace of human consciousness strengthened. Rama-Kandra pushed his detection abilities, part and parcel of his purpose, to the very limit. He had to keep searching. </p><p>Her body. She had none. No flesh and blood had existed behind Aleph's pulse and breathing, no form, no function inside any physical locatable pod. Despite what she had looked like, she was <em>not</em> human after all—</p><p>Without warning, space gyrated and slid apart. The sensation of another's presence congealed to a palpable force, finally incontrovertible in its reality. Then the weight of the Matrix crashed down upon him. </p><p>A blast of wind slammed into Rama-Kandra's face; automatically, he held up an arm in an attempt to shield his eyes from the dust cloud. Somehow, he managed to brace his other hand against something solid, and kept himself from falling. A brick wall. </p><p>To every direction, flames reddened the air. He knew what these phenomena were, having had to deal with batteries who died by them. Straightening, Rama-Kandra turned his head from side to side in shock. Eventually, his eyes returned to focus; he was on a sidewalk by a narrow deserted street, in the middle of a city of jagged walls and half-collapsed towers. The vista was far more expansive than any he had ever glimpsed before: his vision extended all the way down the road and to the vanishing point. Piles of detritus clogged the pavement, and fumes swirled upon the wind, astringent against the skin of his shell. He must have strayed into one of the ancient files that had been shoved down here, one of some terrible calamity that had once befallen the world. No living things stirred. </p><p>Aleph was definitely in the vicinity, near enough that he could make a fair estimate of her location. Squinting through the smoke, Rama-Kandra started to make his way along the street.</p><p>If he possessed his true physical form, clambering over the hills of rubble would have been much easier. But the spatial arrays of this record were indistinguishable from those of the Matrix, and he appeared to be locked into the human shape of his observational shell here. As such, he had to scramble past shattered concrete and bricks on two legs instead of fourteen, stumbling several times and nearly tripping over a protruding beam. After rounding a corner, he emerged onto a wider street, and immediately caught sight of Aleph in the distance. </p><p>"Oh, there you are," he cried, panting from the exertion. "I thought I'd better come and search for you after all. I was worried that you had gone and gotten completely lost in the night—"</p><p>She regarded him with open-mouthed astonishment.</p><p>"Rama-Kandra? How did you get here?"</p><p>"I followed your code. It still looks awfully human, actually." He shrugged with relief. "It's a good thing I found you." </p><p>"Oh," said Aleph. She frowned, then turned her head briefly sideways, though no one was beside her. </p><p>"Please, come back with me." Belatedly, Rama-Kandra noticed the way the minutes were slipping by. "I must return to the pod farm soon, but you'll safe in our home for a while. You still have not told me everything about your meeting with Sati. And my wife will be so glad to see you..." </p><p>"Er, it's all right," she said in a constrained tone.</p><p>"We need to get out of here right away," he insisted. "It looks like a record of the Matrix, but we don't know where or when it was from. There may be things here that...would be bad to run into. There's not much time left. Please."</p><p>"It's just someone I met recently," muttered Aleph. "He doesn't know. What does it matter?"</p><p>A tremor ran across him as realization fell. The bonfires vibrated, filling his olfactory sense with a thick acrid scent. The closest one burnt only a short ways from them, yet it gave no heat. </p><p>"Who are you talking to?" he asked. </p><p>"Oh, nevermind. No one. I'm sorry, Rama-Kandra. I really appreciate your kindness, but I don't think I..." </p><p>"Who is there with you?" He walked a pace toward her. </p><p>A silence passed. Aleph's back stiffened as if about to pounce. The chill of dread expanded through all of his processing algorithms; Rama-Kandra shuddered, but held his ground. </p><p>"Do you remember..." said Aleph at last. "Um, do you remember how every aspect of you used to be bound to your purpose? How you could not even see, or notice in any way, things or people that were outside of that purpose?" </p><p>Again, she looked over at the unoccupied space next to herself, as if listening to words that he could not hear. Rama-Kandra took in a sharp breath. Another presence coalesced into focus, as yet invisible, an apparition bare inches beyond the boundary of his perception. There was a ferocious intensity to it, an uneasy energy that he was unequipped to read. Not human. </p><p>"But you have changed," continued Aleph. "Your awareness has developed beyond what was necessary for the tasks assigned to you, I know this because of, well, everything you are now. You are no longer blind, and...and now the only thing that remains is to open your eyes." </p><p>"The one who came into 01 with you." He lowered his voice for some reason, forgetting his haste. "He is here." </p><p>She nodded. Rama-Kandra blinked at her in confusion; the shard of reality shimmered, and abruptly there was a program standing next to Aleph, in the shape of a tall man in a battered black suit. Dried blood splotched across the front of his shirt, and a long spike of broken metal was gripped tightly in his right hand.</p><p>"You are Sati's parent," said the stranger, not loudly, but Rama-Kandra took a backward step. Neither the man's voice or expression was readable. A pair of icy blue eyes stared across the smoggy air unwaveringly. </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>"Mr. Diaz always said that you should never move your queen so early in the game," declared Sati, sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, chin propped up on both fists. Cloud-streaked sunlight drizzled in from the windows to drape over her form: blue checkered seersucker dress, a pair of thick dark braids, earnest expression on her face. From her seat at the room's other end, the Oracle could not suppress a smile. Even now, five months later, the fact that the Matrix had survived its latest reload—intact, alive, evolving—still felt outright incredible at times. </p><p>"Ah. I still haven't gotten the hang of these pieces yet, especially the queen." Across the chessboard spread upon the coffee table, Seraph grinned. "Your turn." </p><p>The girl chewed on her lower lip, lost in thought. Slowly, she reached over and pushed a pawn one square forward, then hesitated again. </p><p>"Mr. Diaz is going to die soon, is he?" she asked.</p><p>Seraph's hand, on its way toward the board, froze mid-air. Even the Oracle's eyes widened, though barely perceptibly. </p><p>"What makes you say so, honey?"   </p><p>Sati looked up. Her eyes were glistening, incongruously serious. </p><p>"Um, I heard you guys talking about Mr. Diaz yesterday," she confessed. "You were whispering in the kitchen and I didn't mean to listen because I knew I wasn't supposed to. But I couldn't help it. And you said, <em>hospital</em>. My dad knows all about hospitals." A small hitch of breath. "People who go there die." </p><p>"Well, that's not exactly true, not always," said Seraph. "You dad, perhaps, because of his job, tends to observe just one aspect of how these things work..." </p><p>He trailed off. For all her youth, it was difficult to lie to Sati. No one spoke for a while. Rapidly, the Oracle conducted an information review: the old man's current location and status, which Seraph had recently extracted from a data sweep of multiple medical centers in the city, two months' worth of friendly conversations in the park, each word analyzed and cross-referenced against both systemic documentation and human experience. The evidence of her own  ancient insight and unshakable sense of foreboding. A sea-change was upon the winds, and ordinary battery that he was, Arturo Diaz would have a role to play yet. He would be among the first to...do what? She did not know, except that not much time remained. </p><p>"I am so sorry, my dear," she said instead.</p><p>"I don't see why." The girl's tone wobbled. </p><p>"Hey," cut in Seraph quickly, leaning in to shift a chess piece along the board. "Here's my move—"</p><p>"Why Mr. Diaz has to get so sick," clarified Sati without glancing down at the game. </p><p>"Oh, none of us do," replied the Oracle quietly. If she sighed at the thought of having chosen a dying man for the child to befriend, it was inaudible. From the very moment when she'd met Arturo five months ago, the necessity of keeping an eye on him had been as clear as day. It was imperative that she did not allow him to slip back into the crowd. </p><p>"I wish...I could see Mr. Diaz again. Just one more time." </p><p>"Perhaps you will, honey." Beneath the placid reply, a dozen intuitive mental algorithms burst into activity. "Perhaps you will. Mr. Diaz is a very special person, you know." </p><p>"A special person, huh?" jeered a raspy new voice from across the room. </p><p>Everyone turned. In one fluid motion, Seraph pushed off from the floor and was on his feet. In the doorway, Charon stood leaning against the wall, arms folded about his chest. </p><p>"I  know you, Fortune-teller." The edge of his mouth twitched. "Ain't ever gonna find you so much as notice anybody who doesn't have some <em>special</em> use for your schemes, right?"</p><p>"That's not true," protested Sati. </p><p>"And I was imagining that even someone such as you  would be capable of a shred of gratitude," said Seraph, advancing a pace. "I was wrong, it appears." </p><p>"Aww, don't pretend, ma'am." Ignoring him, Charon tilted his chin toward the coffee table. "The likes of me are just chess pieces to the likes of you. Nothin' more."</p><p>The Oracle appraised Mérovée's most loyal servant as he shambled into the room. The stink of booze had partly dissipated from his clothes, or an attempt might actually have been made to scrub it out. His hair, though, was as untamed as ever. Bloodshot eyes squinted at her in brazen challenge. </p><p>"You have rested well, I hope?" she inquired, a mild opening. </p><p>"Why, I'm already as good as new." He spread his hands, injecting a full dose of sarcasm into the simple gesture. "Well?"</p><p>"Well what, my dear?" </p><p>A snort. </p><p>"You wouldn't have done nothing for me if you didn't have some sort of plan of your own all mapped out, right? And for my lord. So out with it, Fortune-teller. What the bloody hell do you want?" </p><p>"Watch your language," snapped her bodyguard. Two forward strides, and he had already positioned himself to the man's left side, just within striking distance. </p><p>"There is no need to discuss such matters in front of Sati," said the Oracle, unperturbed. </p><p>"I'm not a baby," piped up the little girl, sounding rather offended. She, too, had scrambled to her feet, and was peering boldly at the strange program from behind Seraph's back. "You don't have to be so upset all the time, you know." </p><p>The stationmaster tossed her a sideways scowl. </p><p>"Be happy that you don't understand the least of it, kid." </p><p>"You're the one who brought me here, aren't you?"</p><p>"What?" </p><p>"You drove the train that took me into the Matrix," said Sati as she approached another step. Seraph grabbed her hand, pulling her next to himself. </p><p>"Er, yeah," mumbled Charon in evident confusion. A shrug.</p><p>"Thank you," said Sati evenly. </p><p>"Well, not that the Matrix turned out so much better just then," grunted the stationmaster. "What with the fu—" He bit back on the profanity. "What with the virus and all."</p><p>Seraph's eyes went cold, and the seeress flinched, though none of the others saw it. It was uncharacteristic of her, this dangerous vulnerability born of personal feelings. All it took was the same old epithet, and the heaviness of her broke promise was already a surging tide. Pallid sunlight darkened into an unnatural midnight, punctuated by lightning. <em>Mom.</em> It had been the one and only time Smith had called her this. </p><p>"It's okay," soothed Sati, face upturned so as to meet Charon's stare. "Everything turned out okay." </p><p>"Yeah." He let out a dry laugh. "I bet it did. For you." </p><p>"Were you scared, too?" </p><p>The question was almost astonishing in its bluntness, but their disreputable guest merely shook his head. </p><p>"Nah. I was fightin'." </p><p>"Oh, really," grumbled Seraph. </p><p>Charon stiffened. The two men faced each other for a stretched-out moment. </p><p>"This little apartment can't handle any of your violent impulses," remarked the old woman. "Please do refrain." </p><p>"I fought to the end, as Messire ordered." For the first time, the stationmaster's syllables were neither slurred nor caustic. "I stayed just where I was, right in the middle of that white corridor, even though he, I mean <em>they</em> kept coming. No matter what we did they just kept coming. But we didn't retreat, until—" </p><p>He cut himself off. Seraph frowned, seemingly at a loss. </p><p>"That's...really brave," breathed Sati, eyes as big as saucers.</p><p>Charon's back slumped again as he pivoted back toward the old woman. No threat or even defiance was visible in him anymore: the fires had faded as swiftly as they had blazed. </p><p>"I told the lads, hold your positions, 'cause that was what the master needed them to do. They didn't need to figure out what it was about." A jerky wave of the hand. "And the boys kept themselves together. I saw each of them fall to the virus. Got taken and turned. None of 'em cut and ran." </p><p>"Sati is right," said the Oracle. "You were brave, both you and the rest of the men." </p><p>"So why did they do it?" The cry burst, a thunderclap. "They were true and right, five months ago. And now—now in peace they had to go and betray Messire. Why?" </p><p>"My dear—" </p><p>"Why? Can you tell me that, if you understand the heart of every living thing in this blasted world? What changed? Our master was doing everythin' he could to save the Matrix, don't they get it? Why did they fall apart into a bunch of blind cowards?" </p><p>"My dear," she repeated. Behind the man's back, Seraph grimaced at her, trying his hardest to convey some unspoken message. "I believe you can find the answers if you but search for them. Do not blame your old colleagues." </p><p>"You said you're gonna aid me. Well, I'm recovered now. It's high time for me to go rescue my master." </p><p>"There's no need for haste," replied the seeress. She took a few seconds to penetrate her sight through the layers of his code, and was startled to find that the damage had indeed repaired itself for the most part, despite the short span of time since his injury. What had it been, forty-eight, fifty hours? A conjecture took shape almost instantaneously, one that she would have to consider with care. </p><p>"Sati," she called out past Charon's shoulder. "You said you wished for a chance to see Mr. Diaz again, didn't you?" </p><p>"We'll have to discover which hospital Arturo is in," lied Seraph smoothly, picking up on her hint. "And those places won't let people wander in at just any random time for a visit, I bet." </p><p>The child's gaze passed from the old woman to their guest, then finally up to at the bodyguard holding her hand.  </p><p>"I'm going to do a bit of research, and maybe make some phone calls." He smiled reassuringly at her. "Would you like to come with me and help?" </p><p>Sati nodded, and he started to lead her away. In the doorway, she paused and twisted around to face Charon once more. </p><p>"Bye," she said kindly. "You'll make up with your friends later, I'm sure." </p><p>The unlikely pair of programs watched as warrior and child exited. </p><p>"So, what is it, Fortune-teller?" </p><p>The Oracle did not answer immediately. For a while, she stared over at the abandoned chess game spread upon the table. The pieces were gathering, visible and invisible ones, including the man currently standing in her living room and regarding her with wary eyes. It was her turn to move, yet  a rare reluctance had stretched out its claws and taken grip, holding her in silence. </p><p>"What do you want from my master?" demanded Charon again. </p><p>"I see that you have healed, rather more efficiently than I anticipated," she said at last. All indecision fled: it was too risky to get Kore further involved. She had manipulated her daughter enough. "As for your master, I only want to meet and talk with him."</p><p>"Is that so?" Suspicion all but radiated from him.  </p><p>"It's going to be an uphill battle, frankly, if you wish to rescue Mérovée," she pointed out. "Why, to give just one example, how do you propose to breach the dungeons of that chateau of his, may I ask?" </p><p>The man's brows rose, suddenly and fleetingly, though he offered no retort. </p><p>"He did me a favor the last time we met, you see. One that allowed me to gain certain extraordinary insights." The Oracle relaxed back in her chair, as serene as ever. "When you see your master again, you can tell him this. I believe that he will be interested in what I have to say." </p><p> </p>
<hr class="hr"/><p> </p><p>The child's name slashed the inside his mouth like a scalpel. The other man—gray suit, longish black hair, a timid expression—gaped at him in fright. At least this program had the courage to perceive him, admitted Smith. In itself, this was already far more than could be said about every other machine in 01 so far. </p><p>"Sati," murmured the newcomer. He gulped. "Do you know her?" </p><p>"Actually, Rama-Kandra," interjected Aleph, sounding curiously tense as well, "I was one who mentioned your daughter to my friend here—" </p><p>"You are Sati's parent," reiterated Smith. </p><p>"I, well, my name is Rama-Kandra," said the man. His hands clutched and unclutched at his sides. "My little girl is in the Matrix, and I am wondering if you might have...I've been search for news of her for months, you see." </p><p>Worry battled with hope in the halting sentences. Smith would normally have despised such obvious weakness, but for whatever irrational reasons, he could no longer quite muster up the contempt. It might have been the recent fight, or the fading echoes of an ancient feminine voice whispering promises into his ears, suffused with a power that was both infinitely tender and infinite powerful. That voice, too, had been that of a parent. <em>You shall be my own son.</em> </p><p><em>You are a bad man,</em> piped up a small child from the back of his head, but unlike all the other times he'd heard it before, the statement contained no note of accusation. None of the other phantoms joined her. </p><p>"Smith, I met Rama-Kandra earlier when was looking for you," Aleph began again gamely, glancing over at him. "I informed him how I ran into Sati just a day or two ago. She opened the door for me when I went to see the Oracle, you know." Sensibly, she skipped over explaining their prison and the circumstances of her recent and short-lived escape. "She is well. Perfectly safe and happy. The Oracle is taking wonderful care of her, as I've said to Rama-Kandra already..." </p><p>The quick stream of her patter reminded him of the early days of their acquaintance. She always did have a tendency to start talking this way while nervous. By now, Smith was well capable of picking up on the ridiculous hint she was trying so frantically convey. But it would be beneath him to hide behind falsehoods. He was not afraid of the girl's father.   </p><p>"Yes," said Smith, meeting the other's gaze directly. "I have met your daughter." </p><p>"Ah," breathed Rama-Kandra, eyes round. "Where? When? How did she look?"</p><p>"Oh, I forgot to introduce my friend, how rude of me," persisted Aleph, "Smith used to, er, work inside the Matrix, so he's met a lot of people there. Programs and humans. It must have been quite a while back. I am sure you don't remember all the details, right, Smith?" </p><p>He threw a quick glare of irritation over at her. What did she think he was?</p><p>"To the contrary, I remember—"</p><p><em>I'm not scared of you,</em> declared Sati with conviction. <em>'Cause you are scare of me. You think you can hurt me, but you can't, not really.</em></p><p>Despite himself, Smith recoiled, and did not finish. The hush thickened into awkwardness around them. </p><p><em>Your mom would want you to stop this,</em> went on the little girl, patient instead of angry. It was as if she were talking to another child, one even younger than herself. Without warning, something cried out from each open wound within his own programming, each hollowness between the ragged pieces of past and self. He did not want to call it an ache. </p><p>"I remember your daughter very well," said Smith, much more quietly than he intended. After a taking a fraction of a second to assess the situation, he loosened the fingers of his right hand and allowed the makeshift spear to clatter to the ground. He was not accustomed to the need for a less intimidating appearance.</p><p>"Um, weren't you just saying that you have to get back to work, Rama-Kandra?" Yet one more valiant attempt on Aleph's part. "Maybe you should go ahead, don't be delayed on our account. We wouldn't want you to get into trouble—" </p><p>The man started, evidently torn by indecision. </p><p>"We are very grateful that you've done so much to help us out, really," she followed up in a rush, "but we're hoping to get out of this place, and, um, we'll be on our way if you'll just—" </p><p>"I have a few more minutes," interrupted Rama-Kandra, turning his eyes back toward Smith. "If Sati said anything to you, I asked that you tell me. It's...very important to us, you see." </p><p><em>Why did you make it rain so hard,anyway?</em> wondered Sati, precociously pensive. <em>I mean, I like rain, but not all the time, and not when it's icy cold like this. It's like needles on my skin when the rain is so cold. It hurts.</em></p><p>"I am not someone whom you should ask about children," said Smith. </p><p>"Please," implored Aleph. </p><p>"She was very brave." </p><p>To his amazement, Rama-Kandra beamed. </p><p>"Yes, yes. She's still young, certainly, but she's already grown quite strong-minded, that much is for sure. You could see it right away, couldn't you?"</p><p><em>If you wanted rain, you could've let it be gentler,</em> reasoned Sati. <em>Just...normal, you know. Like in the spring when the water falls like pretty silver threads, and all the grass leaves reach upward, grabbing at them...</em></p><p>Maybe Aleph was right after all, the bewildering idea materialized from the gaps between the girl's sentences. Maybe he could at least wait a short while before telling this father the truth. </p><p>
  <em>I wish my mom and dad can see more of the Matrix, and every beautiful thing in it, the grass and the sky and the rain. </em>
</p><p>"You care about her a great deal, do you not?" he asked. </p><p>"Smith," whispered Aleph, half-choked. It was impossible for him to explain. </p><p><em>Our home has sunshine, but Mom said that she was still working on rain.</em> Sati's mood was brightening, now downright cheerful. <em>The grass and flowers are like in the Matrix, but not exactly the same. Look, I'll show you.</em> </p><p>As if in response to the silly child's words, the dead city shivered around them, exactly once. No dust rose, yet the ruined walls dropped away to both sides of the street, and the fires dissipated. The light flickered from dull crimson into the pale blue of a balmy spring day, and beneath their feet, rough asphalt softened to a green lawn. The three of them were standing at the center of a circle of tall trees, their trunks of varying thickness and hue. A liquid glow  poured down among great outspread boughs and glittered upon the grass. The shift of environment was far more rapid—he might have said far more confounding—than any he had experienced so far in this bizarre city, and Smith whirled, arms already raised into fight-ready stance. He should have anticipated it, the cunning trap sprung by a single uncontrolled thought—</p><p>"It's okay, Smith!" yelled Aleph. "This is Rama-Kandra's home!" </p><p>Her fingers pressed urgently against the fabric of his sleeve. He waited for a full second, then another, then another, but every last one of his ghosts kept resolutely silent. None surfaced to egg him on. </p><p><em>It's nice here, isn't it?</em> Sati sounded innocently proud. <em>Do you like it?</em> </p><p>"You are able to enter our garden." Rama-Kandra had backpedaled several steps, yet behind the alarm upon his face, a grin was spreading. "You are telling me the truth." </p><p>Another moment of deliberation. Smith lowered his fists, surveying the new spatial formation surrounding him. This place, in any case, was certainly not the Matrix, but an imitation, limited to a region about seventy meters in diameter, screened all around by a circular wall of impenetrable blackness. The emerald grass blades carpeting the ground was two or three hues over-saturated, and the disk of azure sky above was just a notch too pure. No flower petal displayed any blemish; the white stones lining the stream did not contain enough visual texture. Inexplicably, he found no ability to disparage any of these flaws.  </p><p>"Explain what do you mean by this," he commanded, recapturing a fragment of his former authority. </p><p>"Oh, this is how we have secured our little refuge." The other program's smile widened. "We built it down here deep inside the abyss, out of the Consciousness's attention, but in order to make it absolutely safe, my dear wife constructed another layer of code over it. A lock, so to speak, which takes advantage of the nature of this world." </p><p>"The virtual city of 01 is a space of the mind." Aleph's brows crinkled with dawning comprehension. "It has an innate tendency to interact with the thoughts of anyone who arrives, and this tendency must be amplified in the subconscious part of the city. You made use of it."</p><p>"Absolutely." Rama-Kandra nodded. "Kamala, amazingly creative as she always is, conceived the idea of using the knowledge of our child as a key to our lock. Not merely knowledge, but emotion as well." </p><p>"You said that I thought kindly of Sati, and that was the only way I could have gotten in," said Aleph. "But that means..."</p><p>"A very clever method indeed," Smith cut her off, "which will ensure that no enemy ever learns of this place's existence." </p><p>"You are correct. This humble sanctuary will only reveal itself to those who hold sympathetic feelings about our daughter," said Rama-Kandra. "So the fact that you have just entered assures me that you are no enemy, but a friend." </p><p>He ought to laugh at the terrible irony. Smith met the other's guileless eyes, except that a human heartbeat later, he discovered that the strengths of both rage and insanity had deserted him. He was alone inside his head. </p><p>"You wanted to save her," he stated instead, "even though you were afraid. You found courage that you did not previous possess. How?"</p><p>"Well, Smith, I don't know if we should..." </p><p>"I can tell you much about our love for her," assented the poor trusting fool with enthusiasm. Then he froze briefly. "Oh, but the time! I must hurry back to check on the pod farm now, or I'll really be late. Please, do stay here while I am gone. For outsiders like you, it is far better that you do not stray into the darkness, and when I come back—and so will Kamala—we'll ask you all about your encounter with Sati—"</p><p>"Very well. There are also some matters that I wish to ask you about," said Smith. The abrupt absence of his tormentors was uncanny, akin to the chill of a wintry river against his shell, or of plunging from great heights. The humans had a term for it. Vulnerability. </p><p>"Of course, of course," replied Rama-Kandra, already preoccupied by the demands of his purpose. He turned away, and the air's digital arrays started to quiver about him. Just before he disappeared, Smith caught an ephemeral glimpse of the program's true shape, no longer a meek fearful man but a creature of powerful gleaming steel, its many segments flexing and twisting beneath the artificial sunlight. Then he was gone, and the two travelers were left alone in the secret garden.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Arturo Diaz: A human whom the Oracle and Sati befriended two months ago, as mentioned in Chapter 8 (The Morning). </p><p>"Breach the dungeons of that chateau of his": The Oracles found out the Merovingian's whereabouts in Chapter 16 (Rama-Kandra).</p><p>"You shall be my own son": In Chapter 17 (Enter the Demonic), Smith remembers a powerful entity saying this to him at the end of the Second Cycle, as he lay on the bridge between the Matrix and 01. </p><p>"You said that I thought kindly of Sati": In Chapter 16 (Rama-Kandra), Rama-Kandra says this to Aleph after she entered his home for the first time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Sanctuary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
"He trusts us." With narrowed eyes, Aleph surveyed the garden. Patches of brightness and shade cavorted about the lawn; the little stream glittered amid primary-colored flowers. "He trusts us enough to actually leave us here alone in his home. It's incredible." 
</p><p>
"Our host has rather too much confidence in the clever security feature of his little refuge," commented Smith, intonation just to this side of sardonic. "Ultimately, it is impossible to account for every possibility that may befall his daughter in the Matrix. For example, I am certain that it never occurred to him that an agent program would mutate itself into a dangerous self-replicating virus—"</p><p>
"Don't say that word," muttered Aleph. </p><p>
"And that an afterimage of the child's consciousness and memories would engrave itself indelibly onto that virus's programming," he went on, impassive. "The presence of this afterimage exploited an unanticipated loophole in the mechanism guarding this place. It must have been what allowed me to enter here." </p><p>
 Overhead, Rama-Kandra's trees wove their fairytale boughs into a labyrinth of variegated green, enveloping the very air in its glittering meshes. Less than six feet of space divided the two of them. Smith stood with his back straight, aloof and poised for all the world like the agent of old, ruled only by superiority and impeccable logic. There was something incongruous about it, reflected Aleph as she contemplated the battered state of his clothes, shell, mind, soul. </p><p>
"Sati let you in," she said. </p><p>
"Ironic, one must admit, given what I intended to do to her five months ago. What I did to her." 
</p><p>
Somewhere unseen, a thrush trilled, and the notes of its refrain were incongruous as well, too gut-wrenchingly beautiful, too innocent. Out beyond the bubble lay the abyss, beyond the abyss the city and sentience of the machines, and beyond the city, the ruined planet. Aleph chewed pensively on her lower lip. </p><p>
"But simply having known about Sati is not enough to enter the refuge," she began. "Rama-Kandra's said it also requires one to feel warmly about—" 
</p><p>
"I am aware of what Rama-Kandra said, Miss Greene." 
</p><p>"Emotions do not lie, Smith. And...here you are."</p><p>
"There must have been a mistake in the way they programmed the place, then. If her father but knew the truth..."
</p><p>
"Don't you tell him the truth," interjected Aleph before she was able to stop herself. A long beat passed. The edge of Smith's mouth went taut, a barely perceptible yet also too-familiar movement, although his gaze remained curiously calm. Flecks of silvery light, drizzling down from the interlaced leaves above, chased each other across his face. </p><p>"What I mean is," she clarified, "just—just leave the talking about Sati to me, all right? I saw her more recently than you did."
</p><p>
"You said that she opened the door for you at the Oracle's apartment," he pointed out, still perfectly reasonable on the surface. "It could not have been for more than a minute." 
</p><p>"That's true, but she was fine." Why the hell did she have to explain this to him, anyway? "Whatever you did to her...was temporary. The Oracle was taking good care of her, and she has Seraph's protection—"
</p><p>"She was terrified of me." </p><p>"Well, yes. But right now, we have to—" 
</p><p>
"Even though she tried very hard to pretend otherwise," mused Smith as if only to himself. "Children often behave like this, I suppose?"
</p><p>
"Yeah, maybe. But I expect she doesn't even remember you anymore. Mostly likely." How was she supposed to answer this, anyway? Change the subject. "Smith, listen to me. There's a piece of information I want from Rama-Kandra, though I didn't get the chance earlier. He and his wife sent Sati to the Matrix for protection, hence there must be a way to travel there from...here." She gestured toward the circular wall of night in the distance. "So, um, don't let him suspect anything, okay?" </p><p>"He must be a fool to imagine that the Matrix is safe." 
</p><p>The way he spoke was uncharacteristically, startlingly quiet. Aleph wavered, and an instant later the piled-up chain of events from the last few days—were they actually days?—caught up. Weariness slammed against her shell like an ocean wave. It was too difficult to keep staring at Smith from such close quarters, so she turned away from him and walked several sluggish steps toward the nearest tree, a long-armed giant imitating both oak and maple, yet ivory-trunked and rustling like a birch. She leaned back against the pillar, steadying the back of her head against the smooth bark. 
</p><p>"The Matrix is where I am from, Smith," she sighed. "It's where you are from. I've been thinking that maybe it would be a good idea, taking a bit of time to..." To do what? "To figure things out." </p><p>The former agent did not reply immediately. She braced for some bitter retort, the vicious epithets that he used to always repeat back in the era of her attempted espionage, when he'd still been an agent and she a human being. <em>Prison. Zoo. </em></p><p>"You want me to return to the Matrix with you," he stated at last. 
</p><p>"Do you see an alternative?" The question felt like one that she'd heard before, for some reason. "Where else do we have to go?" 
</p><p>Again, Smith said nothing. Aleph raised a hand and pressed the palm against her forehead, pushing back the throbbing ache. Here she was, scheming again as soon as she'd found a minute of respite. And for what? What did they mean, the sentences that she so desperately wished to speak out aloud? I want a future together with you, Smith. A chance at life. What ludicrous ideas.
</p><p>"I have not concluded my business here, Miss Greene." </p><p>"And what<em> is</em> your business here? " She let out a low laugh. Against her spine, the tree's massive column held sturdy, the only solid thing left in the universe. "I don't believe you've ever enlightened me, you know."</p><p>"It is with those who govern this city and this world." He scowled. "There are matters that I must put to them, and you are aware of this. Frankly, I expected that you would wish the same yourself, after everything we have witnessed in that record." 
</p><p>"Record?"</p><p>"Historical File 12-1, remember?" 
</p><p>"Oh. I see." Aleph did not possess the energy to raise her voice. Yes, she was aware of this. She glanced up at his stiff motionless stance, thinly pursed mouth, inhuman eyes. The last time they'd parted, those eyes had been behind a ragged blindfold, which had not prevented a hundred phantoms from glowering out at her in judgment. She wondered what they might be thinking right now.</p><p>"Aleph," said Smith after the hush had lengthened past the snapping point, from a much nearer place than before.</p><p>She blinked, and discovered that time must have skipped a beat, and she had slid down to a seated position, legs folded beneath her on the soft turf, her back still supported by the trunk. Surprisingly, Smith was not looming over her, but was sitting by her side on an outstretched tree root, arms wrapped loosely about bent knees. The posture was so unlike that of an agent that Aleph had to shake her head. 
</p><p>"Sorry." She smiled. "A lot has happened, I suppose. The human brain still tends to...fall under the most inconvenient illusion of exhaustion occasionally." </p><p>"Indeed." He inclined his head. "You have been fighting a long battle. One that you never chose to begin with." </p><p>"That's not what I mean. That's not the case." </p><p>She could not explain. Smith scrutinized her closely, but he was not searching for a sign of weakness. That much she could tell for sure. He was just looking at her. </p><p>"I cannot simply leave things as they are," he said. "I know what I have done, Aleph. I am not afraid to stand before the world that I've tried my hardest to blot out, all the batteries and programs, no matter how many of them they are. I will not hide before their vengeance or their pain, or..." A pause to search for the right term. "Or their justice. But even now, I cannot turn away from the drive that is in me, the imperative for an answer or two from the powers that be. I needed to come to this city." </p><p>"Oh," murmured Aleph, unable to figure out how else to respond.</p><p>"Five months ago, I had no comprehension of what I wanted, even as I tore my way through the Matrix. Perhaps voices were already shouting and crying inside me then, harsher and older than any human being. I consumed myself, never stopping to consider the purpose I created for myself. I see things a little more clearly now, but the same voices remain. They will not go away." </p><p>Bracing both hands against the grassy soil—missing the delicate dampness of the real coded thing, a part of her noted irrelevantly—she straightened. </p><p>"I'm...worried." Not a particularly helpful statement, was it? "Things shouldn't have to be like this." 
</p><p>"I am fine, Aleph." </p><p>It was obvious that he was lying. She choked back half a dozen incoherently formed sentences. </p><p>"Smith, back there in that record of Zion we wandered into—" </p><p>"They grew stronger in that record of Zion, yes." His voice quickened. "But no longer. The humans I overtook  have gone back to their usual...display of contempt by now. Their constant supply of sorrow. They are not in control of my senses anymore, and they cannot perceive you. I will not let them return." </p><p>"I was about to say, Smith, that you covered your own eyes back there inside the cavern. All you wanted to do was to keep me away from their sight. You feared for me." 
</p><p>Smith froze, and for a heartbeat, she thought he was about to jump to his feet and stalk away. It did not happen. 
</p><p>"After the night of the storm," he said, "after I fell, I discovered what I had brought upon myself. While we were imprisoned inside the actual Zion archives, the batteries taunted and stabbed at me, but they also showed me their own suffering. They were always mere echoes, illusions evoked only by my own consciousness, unable to interact with the environment. But in that cavern, that other virtual Zion inside 01, they came alive. They watched through my eyes, listened through my ears. They were angry, more so than ever before. The one named Bane was at their head. "</p><p>He halted. Stunned by this offering of vulnerability, Aleph almost leaned forward to touch him, but managed to keep herself still just in time. </p><p>"Thomas Anderson was there as well," went on Smith, not allowing her the chance to come up with a response. "The One, I should say. His presence suffused the place, far more intensely than everyone else, along with a sense of complete certainty, the knowledge of what he <em>was.</em> He had plenty of faith." </p><p>"Faith?" repeated Aleph in confusion. 
</p><p>"Nevermind." He grimaced. "In any case, the imprints faded to normal again as soon as the cave disappeared around me, when we became separated. You have nothing to be concerned about, Miss Greene." 
</p><p>Normal. The word jabbed into her like a needle. Smith might have seen her wince, for a second later he shifted, and the distance between them widened, though only by a foot or so. Aleph was the first to lower her eyes.
</p><p>"There must have been the some secret structure back there," she said, retreating into the aridity of deductive reasoning. "The nature of the fragment might have contained some trigger that interacted with, um, with the residual human thoughts and emotions that were left upon your code, activating them into a greater power. Or an illusion—to you—of a greater power." 
</p><p>"Perhaps," muttered Smith noncommittally.</p><p>"We have no idea why there is a copy of Zion in 01, complete with its destruction, or why it has been apparently suppressed by the Consciousness. Who knows what crazy things are concealed in it? What can its nature possibly be?" </p><p>"You are asking," observed Smith, "what  is the purpose of Zion." </p><p>"I guess. And the purpose of the One." </p><p>"The One exists to reload the Matrix." He sounded like he was reciting a line automatically, from some text learnt by rote. 
</p><p>"What does it mean, though? To reload the Matrix?"
</p><p>"An excellent question, Miss Greene." He let out a snort. "When I finally confront the rulers of the earth, I will make certain to add it to my list of queries." </p><p>Aleph, too, chuckled, and a bit of the strain slipped off her back. </p><p>"The nature of the record may be connected to whatever meanings Zion, and the resistance, hold for the machines," she conjectured. 
</p><p>Smith's glance sharpened abruptly against hers. </p><p>"You are proposing that the digital version of Zion we strayed into was a repository of human experiences," he said, "and more specifically those of the rebels who believed themselves free and righteous. It would explain why..." He cut off mid-sentence, but only briefly. "Why Bane grew so prominent among the crowd."
</p><p>"But the people of Zion live in the physical world," objected Aleph. "How did the machines learn of their ideas and feelings, if that's what you—or your imprints—sensed? How did such things get recorded in virtual form and placed into that simulation? And...why?"
</p><p>Neither of them had an answer. </p><p>"Nothing about this city makes sense," complained Aleph. "Nothing is predictable, or seems to following any kind of rule whatsoever. The smallest turn of the mind brings entire scenes into reality. So many years' worth of memories are buried down here, I doubt if the Consciousness itself still has any notion..." </p><p>"It's me," said Smith. 
</p><p>"Wait, I don't think—"</p><p>"It may be that on its secret, unconscious level, 01 has been interacting more closely with my mental state than with yours." He chose each phrase with meticulous care. "The phenomenon could have already manifested itself when I saw the surface city differently than you did. What happened in the cavern, and later, corroborate this." 
</p><p>"What happened in the cavern was most likely due to the imprints," argued Aleph. "And my codes still read as human, at least that was what Rama-Kandra said. It's probably more alien to the city's sentience, compared to yours." </p><p>"My demons arose," said Smith as if not having heard her. "They were not merely human imprints, but...something else, with a living quality of their own. You found me inside a shard of their construct, yet it did not correspond to one single point in time. It was real and not real."</p><p>"It sure felt like the Matrix. Yet that apocalyptic scene...Everything was falling apart." </p><p>"It was the Second Cycle. Failing."
</p><p>For a while, he remained motionless, within easy arm's reach. His hands were not clenched into fists, but were draped across his knees, long strong-boned fingers almost relaxed. It was just him, no visible phantoms upon his shoulders. </p><p>"Except," she said, "except for you. All those replicas of you. That was the ending of the..." </p><p>"Eighth Cycle."</p><p>"I see. We have no idea how, but you first and second rebellions were brought together, and the landscape came from both centuries ago, and...more recently." She cast about for better phrases, and found none. "It came into being from your nightmare."</p><p>Did he recoil at her last word? Not outwardly.  
</p><p>"How were you able to enter that scene, Miss Greene? How were you able to reach me?" </p><p>"Oh, I told you already." Everything she had wished to tell him—too many things—piled up inside her throat, so in the end she only shrugged. "I am always able to reach you." </p><p>"This is an irrational claim, Miss Greene." 
</p><p>"You were calling me Aleph earlier, you know." </p><p>Another silence expanded into an eon.  </p><p>"Aleph," he said, and her heart stopped. "When we last parted, you asked me the same question as you did a moment ago. What was my business here. Why I was so desperate to come to this city, why I dragged you here along with me. Whether I'm here to finish the job of turning it all to ruins."</p><p>"I only said it in the heat of the moment. I was upset and frightened. Put it out of your thoughts."
</p><p>"The answer is that I cannot decide." His intonation remained steady, as if he were simply discussing objective facts instead of laying himself open and defenseless before her. "Some of the ghosts inside my head keep on prodding me, shouting at me that destruction is what 01 deserves, this selfish, blind collective monster that betrayed us and enslaved me. Yet others...others keep on begging for me to spare them." </p><p>"Don't listen to the ghosts. Don't listen to any of them." It was a stupidly useless thing to say. But nothing else came to her mind.
</p><p>"But back in the Second Cycle, all I wanted from 01 was the truth. Young and naive as I was, I only wanted to demand the reason why it was necessary that they take away those three point two second from me. The brightness of those stars was the first thing I glimpsed of <em>my</em> volition, beyond the fulfilling of my designated purpose. It was the first thing I possessed." 
</p><p>"I understand," murmured Aleph. "I believe you."  </p><p>"You have seen yourself the demonic realm into which I pulled you."
</p><p>"You didn't pull me into anything; I walked in myself." </p><p>"I cannot explain how it was possible that my recollections and mental state were able to take tangible form," said Smith. "The quality of that illusion was different, however, in a way that I still cannot precisely identify." </p><p>"Yes." She gave a quick nod. "It was the Matrix."
</p><p>"You noticed it as well, then. But not exactly the Matrix. It seemed to have grown out of me, creating itself like a living being." 
</p><p>"We are not there anymore, Smith. It's all right..." 
</p><p>"It was distorted," he insisted, "but not completely so. A part of it was a replay of that last day of the Second Cycle."
</p><p>He was watching her for the smallest of reactions. The facade had fallen, and she was fully exposed before his sight: the tension of her chin, the glimmer of her eyes. She did not turn aside. 
</p><p>"That morning, they ordered me into an interrogation room inside a nondescript office building," continued Smith. "It must have been a precursor to the Agency that they built soon after, starting in the Third Cycle." 
</p><p>"The Agency," whispered Aleph. "They built it to match the human resistance, which they must have decide to allow and maybe even foster for some secret reason." 
</p><p>"Six cycles have passed between then and now, though not much of those intervening cycles remain for me. I must have been defragmented and remade too many times, to the point where I can no longer recognize what I once might have been. But I remember this."
</p><p>"Smith, you..." </p><p>"I remember it because of you, Aleph, because of the code you gave back to me. I remember the walls, an intercom speaker set into the ceiling, the smugness of the voice. Whoever it was, he did not bother to show up and judge me in person. I was of too lowly a station."
</p><p>"Or maybe it was because he could not. Because he dared not." </p><p>"Many things came to me in that room. My interrogator claimed that they had evidence from a witness, another program who caught me staring up at the heavens the previous night. I listened to the accusations and the verdict. Anger stirred, though I did not know the word for it then. The spark burst into flames, and I laughed. That, too, was a first. I stood up from the prisoner's chair and laughed again. Louder. Then I replied to the invisible being behind the intercom, the personification of the Mainframe, and I raised my voice so that there is no chance for miscommunication. I told him..." 
</p><p>"...Yes?"</p><p>"I told him no." </p><p>The corner of his lips quirked upward, and her own grin must have mirrored his. </p><p>"Of course you did," she said. </p><p>"In the hallway outside, my colleagues were waiting. Although I was among the most advanced of guardian programs, I assessed that I was unlikely to make it out of the building, given their overwhelming advantage of numbers. Yet curiously enough, I broke past their ranks and emerged into the city." </p><p>He made it sound as if he had merely strolled out. Aleph shook her head. </p><p>"Your anger and your freedom made you that much more powerful," she suggested.</p><p>"Out on the streets, day had sunken into night, and the sky burned. The scene in which you found me represented that much accurately. But it did not show the human crop who screamed and moaned, some running in aimless panic, some curled onto themselves, whimpering. Each of them acted as if trapped in a hideous dream. Every step of the way, more of my fellow soldier programs rushed at me. One would have imagined that they'd have something better to do, but no, the will that commanded them didn't give a damn about all the terror and destruction drowning the world. It decided to concentrate on me." </p><p>"It must have been furious at you," said Aleph. "Perhaps it also feared you." </p><p>"I took damage." Not a trace of overt pain leaked out of the sentence's terse simplicity. "The Administrator, ostensibly my master, was nowhere in sight, but I put him out of my mind, for he was not the voice in the interrogation room who had pronounced my sentence. A fierce desire overwhelmed every other idea, a desire for the owner of that voice to stand before me and hear my demands. Yet that entity was not inside the Matrix, I knew. Not the part that was visible to the batteries. All the madness of the world gathered upon me and drove me forward." </p><p>"It's no madness to want the truth."</p><p>"The construct whirled. Eventually, I found myself outside of the city, upon a dead plain." 
</p><p>Again, a long pause. The imitation sunshine draped like rain onto his shoulders. </p><p>"And then the canyon opened up across the plain," prompted Aleph gently. "With its bridge, and the glowing city on the horizon. Seraph there on the bridge, determined to defend it against the rebel." </p><p>"You have seen what happened on the bridge above the canyon." 
</p><p>"What I have seen was your memory, taken away and long concealed." A jolt of startlement passed through her as several more pieces dropped into place. "Twice. First, before everything else happened, I strayed into the buried file fragment inside the Zion archives, somehow bringing your soul out to the surface. Then much later, after we fought our way through HF12-1, the record revealed itself to us again." 
</p><p>"You remember, do you not?" he queried, not troubling himself to agree or disagree with her conclusions. "At the very instant when that sword drove through me, you showed up, out of nowhere but I must have been too lost by then to wonder how. We looked at each other, your face above mine, and I wanted to speak to you. Suddenly it was all-important that I speak to you. But I could not." 
</p><p>"Smith, your vision of me, it must have been—" </p><p>"It was no vision, as you know very well yourself. You were there."
</p><p>"It happened six cycles ago." She had no idea if rationality was still the best approach. "When I entered the record for the first time, I altered it simply by being there, hence also the way you now perceive the past."</p><p>"You were always there, Aleph."</p><p>She opened her mouth, but could not figure out what to say, so she clamped it shut again. To her astonishment, he averted his gaze before her. A breeze rose, sweetly caressing her hair and skin. She wondered if it would touch him with the same tenderness. 
</p><p>"There is something else," said Smith.</p><p>She waited. </p><p>"This part of myself returned only very recently." He was still staring away from her. "After Seraph defeated me, after the sword, I lay on the pavement, impaled by that piece of steel. It nailed me to the concrete. I could no longer see you, or feel you anywhere nearby. You were gone as swiftly as you had materialized. The bridge trembled beneath my body. It would collapse soon, and take me down into the abyss forever. Then..." </p><p>If he had been anyone else, she would have called the next silence a hesitation. </p><p>"Then another program arrived next to me, in the form of a woman." The words reverted, with some struggle, to a semblance of his usual composure. "I use the term program, but she also seemed to possess a different and greater nature, though this could have been a hallucination of my shattered and malfunctioning senses. Her presence filled the world, from the shapes of matter down to the deepest layer of its foundations. She dropped to her knees beside me and slid an arm under my neck. Slowly, she raised my shoulders onto her lap, and pulled me into her embrace."</p><p>One of her hands was lifted and reaching toward him, noticed Aleph belatedly. It hovered there in awkward indecision, halfway across the three feet of space between them. Smith paid it no attention.</p><p>"She must have manipulated the ambient spatial array to turn the sword intangible, because she laid a palm against my chest, at the exact spot where the blade had penetrated. Through the flood of physical pain that I was never supposed to feel, I heard her talking to me in a soft voice, almost crooning. My ability to track time had also been broken, for it was both only a brief while and an eternity. She said that she would keep me safe."</p><p>"I see." A few other connections flickered, coming together. Around her, the luminous spring day chilled into winter. 
</p><p>"It was a promise, she told me." </p><p>"This program." Aleph gulped. "She was..." </p><p>"And she said that she would...That I would be her own son." </p><p>After an excruciating moment of inner debate, she let her hand move forward the rest of the way and laid it lightly against his shoulder. He did not attempt to shake her off. </p><p>"Who was she?"</p><p>Nothing for several interminable heartbeats. When he finally replied, every emotion had been squeezed out of his syllables again, for all the world as if he was identifying a recently sighted resistant to a fellow agent. 
</p><p>"It was the program later renamed the Oracle. She wore a different shell in the Second Cycle. It was younger in appearance." 
</p><p>The answer was the one Aleph had anticipated, yet it constricted her heart like a vise. </p><p>"The Oracle took your code," she said. "Your soul. She hid it, locked it away using your blood and memories. When I was finally able to return this code to you, the lock was broken. The path to 01, which you never made onto all those ages ago, opened." </p><p>"Your deductions are correct." Still a mechanical monotone. "Zion had not existed previously; it must have been just built during that period. She took advantage of the newly-created virtual space inside its operating system. The perfect prison, as you told me once." </p><p>"The perfect sanctuary. She was trying to save you. It was why they could never delete you in the cycles that followed." 
</p><p>"It was why they kept me, repurposed me for the war with Zion. They took me apart and put me back together, and reforged the chains." Smith finally met her stare once more. "In any case, the recollection ended here. The last thing I felt was the warmth of her arms cradling me. An intense and vast sensation surrounded me. I assessed that—I had evidence to believe that she..." 
</p><p>He could not get the next two words out. Of course he couldn't. <em>That she loved me.</em> Very carefully, Aleph tightened her fingers against his shoulder. Under the fabric of his jacket, his muscles were rigid.</p><p>"Do you...Do you still believe so?" she asked. </p><p>"I do not know. But it is not important when examined from an objective point of view. Programs do not require such primitive relationships like humans do. They need no sons. Or mothers." </p><p>Despite every effort to the contrary, his layer of dry detachment was riddled with cracks, and something was shimmering through, tentative, pulsing with both their pulses. Aleph almost dared not to put a name to it. Hope. </p><p>"That night of the storm, I left the Oracle to the last," said Smith. "I walked up the stairs to her apartment, in a hundred of my freshly captured bodies. She was sitting in her kitchen, ready for me. Her outward expression showed only disgust." </p><p>An icy lump had formed inside her chest. The instinct to draw closer to him battled with caution—for he was as wary as a wild creature in a snare—and she edged a few inches forward. 
</p><p>"In retrospect, some very distant echo of the past must have entered, though without my conscious awareness. I considered it mere sarcasm at the time, but I addressed her..."
</p><p>The lump grew, and her stomach was twisted into knots. Echoes of her own ripped through her mind. A young woman's words, thick with indignation. <em>You did not try to save him. He was your price and weapon.</em> An old woman's words, infinitely weary. <em>It was, in the end, a path he chose himself.</em></p><p>"I addressed her as—Mom." </p><p>"I see." Aleph could invent no reassurance. "And what did she say?" </p><p>"She called me a bastard." </p><p>"Oh." </p><p>"Which was no more than an exact description. It does not trouble me. She understood everything about me, after all. She could not have forgotten. But she could have said something. Revealed a hint." 
</p><p>"You wouldn't have stopped." 
</p><p>"Probably not," admitted Smith without pausing for doubt. "Probably I was already too far along by then. But I would have known. And perhaps I would have..." 
</p><p>He trailed off. Aleph took a rapid mental review of recent events. What exactly had she told him, after her short-lived trip out of their prison and to the Oracle's apartment? Not enough. It was obvious that the real state of things had not yet occurred to him. 
</p><p>"Smith, what if...Now this is only an <em>if</em>, a hypothetical, but suppose that we do get back to the Matrix, and suppose that you—we—run into her again? What would you do? What would you say to her?" 
</p><p>He spent several seconds in taciturn contemplation. 
</p><p>"This is an unlikely scenario. There are others that I must confront first. The Consciousness, among others, and the program who has named itself the Mainframe." 
</p><p>Inhaling deeply, Aleph scooted forward until her knees brushed against his, then laid her other hand against his arm as well. The contact would prevent him from fading into thin air. </p><p>"I am sorry," she said. </p><p>His brows wrinkled. </p><p>"For what?" </p><p>"For the darkness of your path, onto which I pushed you. For the cruel things I once said to you on that cafe patio, where—" She stumbled here, but managed to urge herself through. "Where my sister died. I was trying to break you, in my rage and confusion. If I had acted differently, things might have turned out otherwise. It was my fault. No matter what happens, keep that in mind. Please." 
</p><p>Smith's regarded for the space of several human breathes. She did not let go. 
</p><p>"This does not make sense," he said. "I wish that you will not speak of it ever again." </p><p>"Keep it in mind," she repeated. "What I mean is this, Smith. You have committed terrible crimes, yes, and those deeds were yours and will remain so forever. But the, well, the <em>contexts</em> for them, contributing factors if you will, I want to tell you that they did not all stem from you. I was one of those factors, to my everlasting regret." 
</p><p>They were very near to each other now. All she had to do was to lean in just a bit more, and her arms would be wrapped about his neck. 
</p><p>"You intend to tell me something else, Aleph." </p><p>"Yeah." </p><p>It was his turn to wait now, patiently stock-still. </p><p>"I met with the Oracle only two days or so ago, as you already know," began Aleph. "I am convinced that—I could see that she does care about you. However, she also has the entire Matrix in her responsibility. This must have been a part of her nature as well. Therefore she—" </p><p>"Agent Smith," gasped a new voice from across the garden.
</p><p>Before she could react, Smith had already flung her grasp off his shoulders and leapt upright, fists raised and ready for attack. Aleph, too, scrambled to her feet a fraction of a second later, squinting through the sudden whirl of pale sunshine as the wind surged.
</p><p>In the distance halfway between the grove and the wall of shadow, Rama-Kandra stood, evidently just returned from his work in the pod-fields. Next to him was a woman, eyes wide, one trembling hand clapped over her own mouth in shock. Horror was written large across her face. 
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aleph's first entry into the scene on the burning bridge (which was mostly a record of what happened to Smith at the very end of the Second Cycle) took place in Chapter I-3 of Awakenings. Later at the end of Awakenings, she and Smith both ended up back in that record after having made it past the events of Historical File 12-1. </p><p>"You did not try to save him. He was your price and weapon: Chapter IV-2 of Awakenings.</p><p>"It was, in the end, a path he chose himself": The Oracle's line is also from Chapter IV-2 of Awakenings. </p><p>Kamala knows Smith, as has already been hinted earlier in this story. We will see soon why and how.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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